


A World Elsewhere

by StrangerAtTheWindow



Series: There Is A World Elsewhere [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: 1860s, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, American Civil War, American Politics, Don't Like Don't Read, Fantasy meets History, Gen, Industrialization, Major canon divergence, Not Beta Read, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Politics, Pre - Robert's Rebellion, Westerosi Politics, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-13
Updated: 2020-11-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:55:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 40,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26337583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StrangerAtTheWindow/pseuds/StrangerAtTheWindow
Summary: As winter's snows begin to melt, a strange occurrence ties two disparate realms together. When a brave new world arrives at the doorstep of the Seven Kingdoms, the course of history is changed. But will it be for the better?There are new worlds, new rules, and even new players, but the game is always being played.- A series of vignettes centered on each of the Seven Kingdoms -
Relationships: Cassana Baratheon/Steffon Baratheon, Hoster Tully/Minisa Whent, Joanna Lannister/Tywin Lannister, Jon Arryn/Rowena Arryn, Lyarra Stark/Rickard Stark, Quellon Greyjoy/Asha Sunderly
Series: There Is A World Elsewhere [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1934461
Comments: 3
Kudos: 29





	1. PROLOGUE

**Author's Note:**

> Well, here's the beginning of an idea that I've kicked around in my head for the better part of three years, and am only now committing to text due to my writer's block in just about everything else: What if 19th Century America found itself, by the will of (insert relevant god(s) here), on the doorstep of the Seven Kingdoms?
> 
> Yeah, I know. It's pretty convoluted. 
> 
> But it was too interesting for me to not try, so here I am.
> 
> Also, while I appreciate criticism, please do not be rude about it. If the concept doesn't sit well with you, just move along. 
> 
> DISCLAIMER: I do not own the characters nor the world in ASOIAF. I do however share ownership of the other world in question, and total ownership of characters of my own devising.

**The Bite - 265 A.C. / 1860 A.D.**

* * *

The waters just off the coast of White Harbor were famous for their strong winds that could famously topple even the most well-built of galleys. Rain, sleet, and snow were common phenomena throughout the Bite, but between the mouth of the White Knife and the isle of Longsister, storms seemed to come second to rolling tempests. But fishermen like Errol remained unfazed by the constant shifting of the waves. His family had been fishermen as far back as the days of the first Blackfyres and he himself had been navigating this part of the Bite for nearly thirty years, so he’d be damned if he let some rough seas discourage him from bringing his catch back to Sisterton.

“Seven hells, man!” A voice behind him yelled. “We’ve got to turn back!”

“Dammit Ryam! If we turn back now, that’s a month’s worth of pay gone!” He grabbed hold of the till and prepared to shift it. “We may be able to head around this storm if we sail southeast and shift back north before we hit Longsister!”

If there was any opposition to the idea, it was all but drowned out by the crashing of another wave over the boat. A snap of thunder echoed across the rolling waves, as if to make his point. Errol knew turning southeast was a risky move, but if there was a chance that he and his partner could make it through this storm he would take it with both hands.

“Errol! There’s a- ”

Another wave crashed over the length of the ship, silencing his friend, and filling his eyeline with stinging saltwater. When the boat crested the top of the wave, his friend was no longer where he once was. Errol immediately began scanning the sea around him, hoping to catch a glimpse of his friend somewhere in the churning seas. But all he saw through his rain-soaked periphery was miles and miles of ocean.

“Ryam! Ryam!”

The sound of splintering wood, brought him out of his daze as he looked up just in time to see the mast of his boat crash down onto the bow of his boat, knocking him into the ocean.

Struggling to keep his head above the water, he could just about make out the sight of his boat slipping beneath the sea. Another series of waves swelled under and above him and threatened to drag him under. Pulling on his last reserves of strength, he hastened his legs to move and started swimming away from the cresting wave. It felt like the weight of the sea landed on top of him as he was almost knocked unconscious.

The storm seemed to only grow with intensity as he floated helplessly among the torrents of the Bite. Tired and weary, and with no flotsam to hang onto, his hope ebbed away and his last thoughts going to the wife and children he would be leaving behind.

As he closed his eyes and prepared to enter the sweet embrace of the Stranger, he thought he could hear the voice of someone crying out through the howl of the tempest.

Willing his eyes to open he could see through the rain and sleet, a small boat. It seemed to be manned given how he made out a number of oars shifting in unison. His eyes soon felt too heavy to keep open and the world seemed to fall away. And from behind the smaller boat, he could make out the silhouette of a ship.

As his mind receded into darkness, he bore no thoughts to the voice that called to him.

* * *

Errol’s first waking thoughts were that he was still alive. Getting up from the berth, his eyes cautiously drifted around the room. He took a moment to steady hid breath as the memories of what had happened slowly came back to him. He recalled Ryam falling overboard, waves capsizing his boat, and the sight of a distant ship sailing toward him.

With a groan he sat up in his bed and for the first time really looked at his surroundings. There was a door at the far end of the room and at the adjacent corner, a desk strewn with papers and a cabinet above him. But what drew Errol’s eye was the lantern above the desk. It was alight, but there was no candle in the wick. And yet it seemed to burn brighter than any lantern he had seen.

Perhaps he had been picked up by a ship from the Free Cities. He had heard tales from Braavosi whalers how the oil from certain types of whales would burn longer than any candlewax.

The sound of three bells from the deck above seemed to jolt him from his reverie. With a calm pace he slowly opened the door and was immediately greeted with the chaos of a ship’s crew. He had traveled across the Narrow Sea a few times on carracks, and each time the crew of the ships seemed to always scramble about in such a way when something of import was occurring.

Deciding to follow the men, he noticed that all seem to dress very strangely. Each sailor was clad in a dark blue tunic, trousers, and cap. But the choice of clothing alone was not what he found strange. It was the fact that they were all wearing the same tunic, trousers, and cap.

Errol followed the sailors, until he could finally see a set of steps that seemed to lead up to the deck.

With a sigh, he shakily made his way up the stairway and was greeted with the blinding light of a clear day. The sun was shining down in a way that he had never known it to in his life as a Sisterman, and the ocean was calmer than he had ever seen. That serenity was shattered with the piercing shriek of what he assumed was a large horn.

Following the source of the noise, he was greeted with sight of dozens of men scurrying about the deck, pulling ropes, and climbing masts. Shielding his eyes from the sun, he looked up and realized that the men were rolling up the sails.

Errol frowned for a moment and wondered if the sailors were green boys, still unused to the wider knowledge of sailing, or if they were just plain mad. To hoist up the sails in the middle of the open ocean seemed like suicide, especially given how quickly the Bite tended to live up to its namesake. But a large speck of brown and green soon deprived him of his worries.

In the distance was an island, dotted with plains of grass and what seemed to be woodlands further inland. But what stood out the most, was the sight of a massive sea cave that punctured into the face of a massive outcropping that jutted out near the end of the isle. It was large enough for the largest of galleys to sail through and then some. He wouldn’t have been surprised if a small mountain could fit through it’s opening.

A hand on his shoulder made him jump as he was greeted with the sight of an embarrassed-looking man. He had his hands up toward Errol in a way that was begging him to stay calm.

“Easy there, man. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Well, he was certainly a foreigner, but he doubted from the man’s accent if he was from Braavos or any of the Free Cities. Dressed in a more polished blue coat, gilded with brass buttons, strange yellow-bordered straps on his shoulders, and a more rigid blue cap. He seemed to be a noble of some regard.

“I meant to check up on you before we reached back to camp, but my talk with Doctor MacCrae went on longer than expected.” He continued, his voice eerily casual.

“It’s not a problem, milord.” Errol answered tenuously.

“Oh, heavens! While I am flattered, I’m no lord.” He snorted, before giving a nod of his head. “The only person on this ship who comes close is probably Commodore Sullivan up there.”

Errol’s gaze slowly turned up toward a rather stern-faced figure dressed more resplendently than the man he was talking to.

“Where are my manners? I’m Captain Stanley Erinmore of the _USS Ogunquit_.” The man held his hand out to him.

“Errol. Just Errol.” He replied, hesitantly shaking the proffered hand. “ _Ogunquit?_ ”

“The name of my ship, Mister Errol.” His smile seemed somewhat bemused. “Or rather the commodore’s ship, for the duration of this expedition.”

“Oh.” It was a dumb answer, but given the circumstances, he figured he was entitled to a moment of plain bewilderment. “I s’ppose… I should thank you for the rescue.”

“Your thanks should go to Doctor McCrae. We would’ve probably missed you entirely, had it not been for the good doctor’s keen eyesight.”

He would have to thank this Doctor McCrae once he had the opportunity. For now, he figured he should see if these strangers’ gratitude could be stretched far enough to bring him back to Sweetsister.

“While I appreciate your generosity, I don’t suppose you’d be kind enough to provide me with passage back to Sisterton or White Harbor at least?”

“Sisterton? Is that one of the islands in the bay?”

Errol could not help but to stare back at the captain in shock. He knew that Westeros was of little import to most foreigners, but a surely a sea captain should know well enough the major ports of the Narrow Sea.

_Unless he was from the lands beyond Essos._

“Are you from the Free Cities?”

“No, not as such. Where we’re from is actually quite a bit complicated to explain.”

The blast from the horn sounded again, his ears piercing at the sheer noise it made. Turning around he saw what looked to be a massive chimney, smoke bellowing from its top, standing right at the center of the ship. And next to it, a vent of steam making the noise that had sounded like a war horn.

“Sorry about the whistle. I’ve been sailing for twenty years, and the damned thing still frightens the daylights out of me.”

Errol’s eyes soon drifted away from the chimney to the odd sight protruding from the side of the ship. A series of paddles attached to a massive wheel, like the ends of spokes, revolved forward seeming to push the ship along. Stepping closer to the railing, he could see that there were oars that aided in the ship’s movement. And, as best he could see, no people moving the revolving wheel.

_What sorcery could this be?_

Turning around to face the captain, he could see he was talking to a similarly dressed sailor.

“Mr. Matthews, the beach is in sight. Prepare to disembark.”

“Aye-aye captain.”

Once the man had stepped away, Errol walked up to the captain and repeated his concerns about returning to Sisterton.

“We can certainly do that Mister Errol, but I’ll have to have a word with the Commodore before any final decision is made.” He started to walk toward the starboard side, gesturing for him to follow. “The complicated nature of our arrival means that we’ll have to rely on your assistance in getting you back to your home.”

 _Complicated nature? Arrival?_ The words swirled in Errol’s thoughts as his confusion over these blue-clad strangers only increased. And at the forefront of his mind, only one question made itself clear.

“Mr. Denny! Raise up the colors!”

From the main mast, he could see a sailor attaching a banner of red, white, and blue to one of the lines. Errol’s gaze slowly followed as the line was pulled and the flag of these sailor’s house was raised.

Turning back to the captain, he asked him the question burning in his mind.

“Who _are_ you?”

Saying nothing, Captain Erinmore’s only response was to give a languid smile and bring his gaze up to the banner that had been raised. Errol followed suit and looked back up at the flag, its pattern now in full sight as it spread out against the wind.

Errol could only stand in wonder as the unfamiliar banner waved, showing itself to emblazoned with the unmistakable pattern of stars and stripes.

* * *

_\- Hail Columbia, happy land! -_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for indulging my attempt at colliding Gilded Age America with Targaryen Era Westeros (This fic starts before the Gilded Age, but the series that I have planned is mostly set in it).


	2. THE WOLF

**The North – 265 A.C. / 1860 A.D.**

* * *

_Spring has come_ , Lord Rickard Stark mused as the overcast skies seemed to carry only cold winds, and not the blizzards of winter.

It had been a long voyage back from the pit of vipers that was the esteemed capitol of the realm, King’s Landing. What was originally supposed to be a simple negotiation for grain prices with ambassadors from the Reach had turned into three months of on-again-off-again discussion with the newly crowned Aerys II. While he had been in the capitol for the king’s coronation, he had had limited personal contact with the Targaryen king. So, it was quite a shock to Rickard when he received the invitation sealed in red wax with the sigil of House Targaryen. If his summons was a surprise, then the reason for it was even more so.

_“I aim to extend the borders of the North, beyond the Wall.”_

At first, he had thought that Aerys was jesting with him, trying to gauge the character of one of his Lord Paramounts. But then he was peppered with questions.

Questions about the state of the North, its military capabilities, its economy. Inquiries about the North’s lack of a navy, about the number of brothers in the Night’s Watch, the condition of the Wall, the thoughts of the Northern people on the freefolk, his own thoughts on the freefolk. It all seemed rather idealistic, even for a king as young as Aerys.

Putting away his thoughts on the matter, he stepped out onto the deck of the ship. The carrack that had carried him from White Harbor to the capitol was now safely carrying him back home to the North. As it approached the dock, he could see a group bearing the banners of his house. Stepping of the gangplank, he was greeted with the jubilant form of Lord Wyman Manderly.

“My Lord Stark!” The jolly lord greeted him with a firm shake of the hand. “How was the capitol?”

“Still a cesspit.” He remarked, earning a laugh from Lord Manderly. “The negotiations went along without issue, although the prices were a bit higher than last year.”

“I’d expect as much from the Reachers.” The fat lord grumbled.

“And how are you Lord Wyman?” Rickard asked.

“Not too well.” He answered, concern now marring his features. “There have been strange occurrences since you were last in the city.”

“Strange? In what matter?” He inquired.

“It would be better if you were to follow me, my lord.” He answered, rubbing his fingers together. “I can explain on the way, or at least I can explain what I can.”

Furrowing his brow, he regarded Lord Wyman for a second before he nodded in concession. Stepping into the wheelhouse, the small procession made its way through the white cobblestone streets of White Harbor.

“A few days before you arrived, a ship from House Sunderland docked in the harbor.” Lord Wyman began. “They dropped off a man who I had first thought to be some sort of fugitive from the dungeons. After some explanation, it was revealed that the man had been shipwrecked out on the Bite when he was saved by a strange group of foreigners.”

“Foreigners?” Rickard inquired. “From the Free Cities?”

“That was our first thought, as well.” Wyman shook his head. “But he claims that aren’t from the Free Cities, or anywhere on Essos for that matter. He explained that the foreigners wanted to establish relations with the Seven Kingdoms, so they dropped him off at Sisterton so he could send a message to his lord. Lord Triston apparently wanted nothing to do with them, so he sent the man to us.”

“Hm.”

With a pensive sigh, he watched as they passed through the gates of New Castle. _Foreigners at the very borders of Westeros?_

Lord Wyman seemed to proceed with a nervous energy as he stepped out of the carriage and into the halls of his keep. Keeping a brusque pace, Rickard followed him through the tapestried halls, up flights of stairs, and into a modest guestroom.

Sitting on the bed, with his hands clasped together, was a plain looking man. He noted that he seemed a bit slim but looked relatively healthy. If he had to guess from the man’s appearance, he would assume that he was one of the smallfolk.

With a nervous glance, the man stood up and gave a clumsy bow toward the two northern lords. “My lord.”

“This is Lord Rickard Stark of Winterfell.” Lord Wyman began. “You’ll answer his questions plainly, alright lad?”

“Of course, milord.”

Raising a hand to ease his nerves, Lord Rickard greeted him. “What is your name, lad?”

“E- Errol, milord.”

“Errol. Well, met.” He grabbed one of the chairs in the room and sat down, bidding the nervous Sisterman to follow suit. “Lord Manderly here told me about your encounter. Is what he says true?”

He nodded furiously. “It’s all true, milord. I- I just don’t know what to make of it.”

“Did these people threaten you in anyway?”

“No, milord. They were quite cordial.” He answered. “But they were a strange lot. I- ”

He paused, a nervous look entering his eye. Realizing the man’s reluctance, he asked for a cup of wine. Once a servant had brought it, he passed the chalice over to Errol. “Drink.”

Nodding, he accepted the chalice and took a large sip. “Thank you, Lord Stark.”

“Now speak, I’ll hear the truth from you.”

“Well… I… I don’t rightly know if I believe it m’self.” He started, recounting the events. “I was fishing out in the waters between Longsister and the Neck, when my mate and I got caught out in a storm. He was washed overboard, and I thought I was gonna be followin’ him soon to the Seven Hells, when I was picked up by these people.”

Rickard nodded, listening intently to every word.

“They picked me up and let me stay aboard their ship. They seemed nice enough. The ship’s cap’n, a bloke maned Erinmore, told me that they were lost and trying to find the closest local lord.”

“Where did they come from?”

“I don’t know. When they picked me up though, they brought me to an island where they’d set up camp.”

“An island? Out in the bay?”

“No, milord. When they was bringin’ me to Sisterton they sailed east. By my reckoning, it was somewhere between Longsister and the Neck.” He took another sip of wine before continuing. “It’d probably be a half a dozen leagues south of White Harbor.”

Now Rickard understood why Lord Wyman was in such distress. If a group of foreigners hitherto uncontacted by the Seven Kingdoms have set up camp so close to Westeros, only the gods – old and new – would know what they wanted.

“Were these people armed?”

“I don’t think so, milord, but they did have soldiers among‘em. They were dressed in blue coats with white belts, and each of ‘em seemed to be carrying queer-looking staves.”

“Tell me,” He said gruffly, “did the people you encountered, have a banner of some kind? Something to identify themselves?”

“They did, milord. After they rescued me, one of them gave me ‘is coat and a whole lot of papers wrapped up in one of their banners.” He turned to the other chair in the room and grabbed a length of deep blue wool that indeed unraveled into a coat. From one of the pockets, he pulled out a strange three-colored banner that seemed to be encasing something. Without a word, he passed the bundle to Rickard.

“This is it.”

The two others in the room leaned over with curiosity, as Rickard began to unwrap the strangely patterned flag. Passing the flag to Lord Wyman, he grabbed the short stack of papers that lay inside. Sifting through them, he was initially struck by the fact that while he recognized more than a few letters, he could hardly make out more than one or two words. The language while familiar, seemed almost completely foreign.

Looking up, he stared at Lord Wyman as he observed the banner in his hands.

“Wyman, do you recognize this language?” He passed the papers to him, as he took the foreign flag in exchange.

“No, my lord, I do not.” He looked down in confusion as he sifted through the documents. “Perhaps my maester can identify this script.”

“Perhaps…” He trailed off, as his eyes drifted back to the foreign banner.

In one corner lay a field of blue, dotted by a symmetrical pattern of white stars. Running lengthwise, there was a series of alternating red and white stripes.

By all regards, a rather unremarkable heraldry. But when Rickard held it in his hands, he felt an odd chill creep through his fingers. It was fleeting but it disturbed him, nonetheless.

Pushing those thoughts aside, he considered his options. If what the Sisterman’s words were true, then there was a possibility that there was a foreign delegation seeking to contact the Seven Kingdoms. This meant that he needed to send a missive to King’s There was the possibility that these strange new people could be sellswords from some wayward corner of Essos, or beyond.

“If shown a map of the Bite, would you be able to point out where you had been picked up?”

“I reckon I could.” He considered a moment before continuing. “But, milord, I was knocked out for some time while I was on the black ship. I can tell you where it was they picked me up, but I’d be of no help beyond that.”

“But you would still be of help until then.” Rickard responded, assuaging the man’s concerns. “It’s enough, I assure you.”

“As you say, milord.”

“Thank you, Errol. We may have need for your assistance in the future, so I hope you understand if we keep you here.”

Errrol’s expression seemed momentarily crestfallen, but he knew that he could not disobey an order from a lord. “Of course, milord.”

Satisfied, Rickard nodded and began to leave with Lord Wyman before turning back around to the fisherman. “I’ll have my seneschal send word to your family in Sisterton, as well as some money to make up for your lost catch.”

His eyes widening, he stood up and bowed quickly at his feet. “Thank you, milord! Thank you! And may the Seven bless you!”

The two Northern lords stepped out of the room, as they were left to debate the course of action to be taken.

“What do you think, Lord Stark?” Wyman asked. “Should we go to the king?”

“No,not yet.” Rickard replied. “We need to confirm the man’s story first. Meet these people with our own eyes.”

“My lord – ”

“What is it Wyman?”

He sighed before continuing. “I do not doubt the man’s words. But I’ve been sailing across the Bite all my life. There is no one in all of Westeros who knows those waters as well as I do.”

“Your point, Wyman?”

“There are no islands between here and Longsister. Not a single one. Not even rocky outcroppings. I can guarantee you that.” He lowered his voice before continuing. “So, if these foreigners did set up camp on an island in the middle of the Bite, where did that island come from?”

Rickard could not answer his bannerman’s musings. He would have to search for those himself. But to him, his aim was clear – to do his duty by his people and king. If these foreigners have come to invade, then by the Old Gods and New, he would drive them back into the sea. But if not, then perhaps there lay the potential for opportunity for the North.

For now, though, he would have to take this one step at a time.

* * *

Lyarra was never fond of winter.

It was odd, she had to admit, given that she was born of House Stark and had married her first cousin once removed thus making her a Stark twice over. But winter always loomed ominous over her and her family. Her house words, _“Winter is Coming”_ , seemed a threat to the southron lords who had deemed her and her people as little more than barbarians. To Lyarra, though, those words seemed to be a threat to her and her family as much as it did to those who lived below the Neck. And this last winter seemed to be as much.

The winds had been harsher this winter than they had been in the past two, and the grain stores from the Reach barely lasted enough to keep the various keeps throughout the North from starving too much. Despite her concerns, her distaste for winter was satiated by the arrival of a white raven from the Citadel some weeks earlier. Winter had ended, and spring was soon to come.

But the promises of the white raven were soon followed by the uncertainties of a black raven. Her husband, Rickard, had finally returned from the capitol with good news regarding the negotiations with the Tyrells, but had to remain in White Harbor.

Despite the delay, she was not worried.

There were few things that worried Lyarra Stark, chief among them being the welfare of her children. As she trudged through the last of the winter snows across the courtyard, she headed toward the one place she knew she would find her eldest son. She hadn’t wanted to interrupt Eddard’s breastfeeding time, but when one of her nursemaids had informed her that her eldest had sneaked away from her and the guards, Lyarra had little choice.

Walking directly toward the horse stables, she saw a small toddler draped in furs trying to reach the door handle.

“Brandon!”

The three-year-old toddler turned around, his eyes as wide as saucers. Shifting her youngest in her arms, she walked over to the stable doors where her son was trying to unlatch the door to the stables.

Grabbing her son’s hand, she dragged Brandon Stark away from the potential world of trouble that awaited. Kneeling to him, she looked her son straight in the eye.

“Now, Brandon, what did I say about going off on your own?”

“No go wiout mama!”

The immutable smile that spread on his face despite the scolding didn’t faze her anger at all.

“That’s right. Not without Mama.” She huffed, making sure not to shift little Ned in her arms. “The next time you want to go to the stables, ask mama first alright?”

“Awight mama.” He cooed.

“Good, now come on.” She stood back up and held out her arm for Brandon to hold. “It’s time for your lessons with Maester Walys.”

“Awww!”

“Brandon…” Lyarra scolded, brow raised in case her son should try to resist.

“Awight…”

Hand in hand, they both walked across the courtyard and back into the Great Keep of Winterfell. As they walked toward the maester’s tower, she made sure to mention the little escapade to her handmaiden and to harangue the guards who were _supposed_ to keep watch of him while she fed Brandon.

“Lady Stark.” She was greeted by Maester Walys as she entered his office.

“Maester.” She nodded in greeting. “I apologize for my son’s tardiness. I fear that his curiosities had lain with the stables rather than your books.”

“Is that so?” He kneeled down and patted her son on the head. “I’m afraid to say, my lord, that you’re still far too young to learn the art of horsemanship.”

He laughed at the frown that appeared on the toddler’s face.

“Not to worry my lord. One day you will be old enough, but until then you must learn your letters first.”

With a huff, Brandon sat down on the chair and crossed his arms. Lyarra’s attempts at disciplining Brandon only worked so much. He seemed much more well-behaved when her husband was with them, but on her own, Brandon always seemed impulsive and undisciplined. She had hoped that this attitude was only the fleeting tempest of a child’s mood rather than something that would stay with him through his life. But even her husband had noted that Brandon had the temper of a wild wolf, willful and brash.

_As much as I did, when I was his age._

“Thank you Walys.” She nodded her thanks at the maester. “If you’ll excuse me, I must return to this little one.”

Her little Ned seemed only to coo, as she shifted him in her arms.

“Very well, my lady.” Walys smiled, as he opened the door for her. “Oh, and my lady?”

She stopped at the door and turned as she watched the old maester grab a letter from his desk and passed it to her. “This arrived an hour ago from a courier in White Harbor.”

“My husband?”

“I assume so, my lady. It came in a bundle along with several documents from the maester at White Harbor.”

“Thank you, maester.” She left, letter in hand as she walked slowly back to the nursery.

After taking some time to finish Eddard’s feeding, she set the babe down into his cradle and rocked it gently until he fell asleep. Taking the opportunity for a moment of calm, she sat down and opened the letter from her husband.

> **_My dearest Lyarra,_ **
> 
> **_I am sorry, my love, about the delay in my return. Events in White Harbor have prevented me from coming back to you, but for good reason. I write to you from…_ **

And as she read through it, she felt her brow furrowing in confusion at each word.

_Surely this can’t be true._

But then, it was her husband. And for all the reputation that Rickard Stark had, he was by no means a liar.

Putting down the letter, she decided to obey her husband’s order for now. She knew that he was well within his rights to keep such things from her, but his promise to her on their wedding ensured that they’d be equal in all matters. But to keep such a thing a secret could only invite death if discovered to soon.

Turning back to the cradle she saw her little Ned stir in his sleep. Placing a hand on the cradle, she rocked him gently and soon, her son was quiet once more. She wondered, for a moment, what her son was dreaming of.

She had hoped that it would be of spring, but in her heart, she knew.

_Winter. Always winter._

* * *

The seas were eerily calm, Rickard noted as the Manderly sailors went about their duties. They were the finest seamen that the North had to offer ever since Bran the Burner turned what was once left of the North’s fleet into ash. Their voices and jubilant singing did well to lighten everyone’s mood, but his.

In the days following his talk with Errol, rumors began circling among the merchants coming in from the Three Sisters. Whispered tales of foreign men dressed in blue crewing strange black ships with smoke rising from their chimneys began earning the concern of more prominent sea captains. He knew that it would not be long before these stories spread down south, and eventually to King’s Landing.

_And gods only know how the Targaryens would respond._

After sending a raven to Winterfell informing Lyarra that his return would be delayed, he finally set out on the sturdiest of Lord Wyman’s ships, the _Green Hand_ and the _Merman’s Folly,_ and set sail. Errol, having been grateful for the compensation to his family, volunteered to accompany Lord Rickard.

Stepping down into the captain’s cabin, he saw that Errol had still not left his place at the captain’s side, so eager was his desire to aid in this venture. They were gathered around a map that was focused primarily on the southeastern part of the North.

“In about half a league, turn southeast.”

“Southeast? There’s nothing there for hundreds of miles.” The captain replied.

“I promise you, this was where that black ship found me, alright.”

Taking this moment to make his presence known, Rickard stepped forward and asked, “Are you sure it was here, Errol?”

“As sure as winter, Lord Stark, I guarantee it.”

If Rickard was hesitant, it disappeared with a nod of his head to the captain who conceded in turn. Marking the point on the map where they were to turn, he gave one last look of worry toward the Sisterman and left the cabin. As the orders to make ready to turn southeast were barked at the sailors of _The Green Hand_ , Rickard walked toward the map taking in the kingdom before him.

“My lord,” Errol scratched his cheek in worry. “What will we do once we arrive at this point?”

“We’ll split up from the _Merman’s Folly_ and cover the area between the Sisters and the Vale.” He answered. “If they went to the trouble to send a message of greeting to us, then they’ll certainly be trying to find us as well.”

Crashing through the waves, the two ships soon made a gentle turn of course toward southeast. The _Merman’s Folly_ began to veer off further east, whilst the _Green Hand_ sailed further south. It was a risky plan given that the waters between the Vale were known to be a hunting ground for pirates in the spring. But he took the chance, given that the white ravens signaling the end of winter only arrived two weeks ago.

_With any luck, those brigands won’t risk sailing out in numbers before spring arrives in full force._

But he knew that he was balancing this risk with the chance that the winter storms would not be dissipating for another month. 

Thankfully, he skies had been somewhat clear since they departed White Harbor but knowing the unpredictable nature of the Bite meant that a storm would not be too far away. One of the seamen on watch noted with worry that there seemed to be a streak of dark clouds gathering from the northeast. It was still quite a way off, but the captain still expressed his concern to Rickard.

“Best turn back, my lord.” The captain suggested. A sudden swell of the waves seemed to punctuate his point.

He was silent a moment as he counted his options.

“Keep on course. We sail until we reach the lands of House Corbray.” He ordered. “I fought with their liege, Lord Arryn, against the Ninepenny Kings. He’ll grant us safe harbor if the storm gets too close.”

“Yes, my lord.” The captain replied.

The dark streak that seemed to smear the sky appeared to be unmoving, and hopefully it would stay that way.

“CAPTAIN! TWO SHIPS SPOTTED ON THE PORTSIDE! COMING IN FROM THE NORTHEAST!”

The lookout’s call seemed to bring a sobriety to the situation, as the sailors all began to tense up in their duties, before carrying on.

Approaching the portside of the ship, the captain turned a Myrish far-eye toward the direction of the ships. “It’s the _Merman’s Folly_ , but I don’t recognize the ship with her.”

“Is the ship painted black?” Rickard asked, now at the captain’s side along with Errol.

“It would seem so, Lord Stark.”

Passing the far-eye to him, Rickard stared through it and could see the familiar outline of the _Merman’s Folly_ sailing close behind it was a ship that was either black or a dark blue.

“Have they spotted us yet, captain?”

“It’s hard to tell, my lord. They’ve not changed course yet, but I’ll have the signal flags hoisted up to make sure.”

Turning to Errol, he passed him the far-eye and pointed toward the ships. “Is that the black ship that picked you up?”

Peering through the Myrish glass, Errol answered. “No, milord. The ship was at least twice as big as that, with a sort of… wheeled paddles. And a chimney billowing smoke.”

“Have they replied yet?” The captain shouted up to the lookout.

“Not yet, captain!”

The ships then began to turn in their course, sailing parallel to the _Green Hand_.

 _Something’s wrong,_ thought Rickard.

Taking the far-eye out of Errol’s hand, he took the opportunity to focus in on the _Merman’s Folly_. Observing the ministrations of the crew on the other ship, he could see nothing out of the ordinary, however there appeared to be fewer sailors working on deck than when they started. Casting his gaze over to the new ship following them, he could see some thirty or so men scrambling on deck. They had no colors to identify them, nor banners. It was when those men started to line up on the side facing the _Green Hand_ , did he realize something was wrong.

Spying a mark on the bow of the ship, he could just about make out a familiar looking shape. As the ship drifted closer to theirs, in such a way that it was lined up directly behind the other Manderly ship did he realize the shape.

It was the sigil of a red eye.

_Oh, no._

“TAKE COVER!”

His warning arrived just as the first projectiles landed on the deck of the _Green Hand_. Five, or maybe six, bodies were strung out, each pierced by multitudes of flaming arrows that had also struck the deck.

Barely collecting himself, the captain began barking out orders as the surviving crew began scrambling to ropes and hoisting up sails. A few of them had even managed to bring out their own bows and began returning fire.

“LOOSE!”

The arrows seemed to do little to stop the onslaught as the attacking ship continued to sail ever closer. Another volley of arrows brought down a most of the archers, and by now the _Green Hand_ had managed to be caught between the two assaulting vessels.

The sound of grappling hooks affixing themselves to the ship’s railing heralded the arrival of dozens of pirates who had begun to attack the crew of the _Green Hand._

Chaos erupted as Manderly men began a bloody clash against the invading horde. Steel on steel, fist on fist, the fight soon devolved into a melee of blood and viscera. Drawing Ice, his Valyrian steel blade, from his sheath, Rickard began to hack and slash any raider who dared to attack him.

A cry somewhere at his left, brought his attention to Errol who was in the midst of preventing an Iron raider from stabbing his chest with a knife. With a single thrust, he dispatched the brigand and he toppled lifeless onto the deck.

“Behind you m’lord!” Another raider was ready to cut into him with his blade when a sword suddenly burst through the pirate’s chest.

From behind, the captain had held his short sword coated in blood.

“Are you alright, m’lord?”

“I’m fine, but we won’t be if we don’t rally the men.”

With a nod, the three men all rushed into the melee picking up more Manderly sailors as their small horde soon found themselves forming a line against the pirates. But whilst they had managed to rally the men, they were still outnumbered two to one. Soon they had found themselves pushed back to the quarterdeck with most of the ship having fallen to the raiders.

The combat soon slowed as the pirates held back. From behind the horde, a man stepped forward in a worn gray doublet and an eye patch painted with the red-eye sigil.

“Well, isn’t this a surprise.” The man sneered, taking in the haggard forms of the surviving sailors. His eyes turned toward Rickard as he pointed to him, “You’re Rickard Stark, aren’t you?”

“I am.” He answered stoically.

“Yeah… yeah… I thought so.” The man stepped forward, blade in hand. “I’d never forget the blade that killed my captain.”

He pointed the tip of his blade toward the hilt of Rickard’s sword.

_Ice._

Rickard remembered it well, the war against the Ninepenny Kings, campaigning in the Stepstones. He could recall his bloody dance across Grey Gallows, Ice in his hand, as he and five thousand Northron men-at-arms brought winter to the southern isle.

And the last of the Ninepenny Kings to die in battle, Nine Eyes.

He could still see the anguished faces of Nine Eyes’s men as they watched Ice deliver the King’s justice. They were called the Jolly Fellows, Nine Eyes’s men, but when they saw their captain’s head fly clean from his body their jubilee was replaced by disheartened fear. They scattered.

It was only by his own hand did the whole affair was saved from being a massacre, at least until the king’s orders came. And Grey Gallows lived up to its name.

But what he remembered most deftly of all, was the surprised face of man with the sigil of a red eye on his cloak. He had heard of how the captain of the Jolly Fellows was always accompanied by his right-hand man, known only as the Tenth Eye.

_So, here’s the so-called “Last of the Ninepenny Kings”._

“I’m surprised you couldn’t remember the face that did it.” Rickard replied.

“I’ve been rather busy these last few years.” He shrugged.

“Indeed.” Rickard replied. “Looting, raiding, and kidnapping, I suspect.”

“Oh, you’ve heard of my exploits then, Lord Stark?”

“The actions of one craven bear little difference to that of other cravens.”

“You insult me m’lord. I would think that I at least add a flourish of creativity to my crimes.” Tenth Eye laughed derisively as he observed the other survivors. “While I am curious as to why the Lord of Winterfell is busy wandering the waters of the Narrow Sea, this opportunity is far too good to pass up.”

“Opportunity?”

“Yes,” He smirked. “Opportunity for… what was your king’s words again… oh, yes – _fire and blood_.”

“Fire and blood?” Rickard scoffed. “Leave it to a craven thief to steal the words of another.”

“And leave it to cowardly wolf to be the bitch of a dragon.” Tenth Eye sneered, drawing his falchion from his scabbard. “But it’s no matter. Now you will know my captain’s fate.”

“Your captain’s fate was his own doing.” Rickard leveled. “He dared to support a usurper of the Iron Throne.”

“You killed him!” The pirate screamed back at him.

“And that was the consequence of his choice.”

“You’re right Stark.” He spat out in rage. “Just as this is a consequence of yours.”

Raising his sword, he struck a blow that Rickard had blocked with ease. Tenth Eye’s rage could be felt with each move that was struck on Ice. If his sword were not made from Valyrian steel, he would be sure that Tenth Eye would have fulfilled his quest for vengeance.

Around them the melee erupted once again, their duel being engulfed by a sea of combat. Inch by inch, the Northmen were being pushed back. And through all the blood and steel, Rickard’s focus lay squarely on Tenth Eye. Rickard was a skilled swordsman, and well aware of the advantage that Ice had provided him. But the close quarters combat that was inherent in fighting on the cramped decks of a ship rendered him incapable of delivering a serious killing blow. All Rickard could do was parry every slash and cut that was wrought upon him.

After barely managing to block another downward stroke from Tenth Eye’s blade, he felt a shot of pain course through his arm. Turning around he thrust his sword forward and fell another jolly fellow, only just escaping another killing blow from Tenth Eye.

While the men of the _Green Hand_ were holding, he knew that they’d be breaking soon. If he could find a way to kill their captain, then they might have a chance of surviving.

Seeing an opening in Tenth Eye’s stance, he rushed forward, thrusting and hacking at every opportunity given. The harsh clang of steel kissing steel signaled an impasse. Tenth Eye held firm against Rickard’s assault, hatred filling the sellsword’s single eye.

The steel of Rickard’s blade could hold up against Tenth Eye’s and a strong downward strike could be enough to disarm him. But around him, he could see more pirates climbing onto the deck of the _Green Hand_.

For a moment, it felt like that this dance of death between the two was the eye of the storm. A conflicting moment of serenity amidst the cacophony of battle. Not one worthy of the songs that the southron lords and ladies were so keen on repeating, but rather and epilogue to one. A conclusion.

One way or another, someone would lose their nerve.

_But which of us will break first?_

A howling screech, that seemed to bellow from the seven hells, echoed across the sky before a wall of water erupted on the open side of the Jolly Fellows’ galley. Another screech pierced the sounds of combat only to land on the deck in a volley of splinters and wood. The mast of Tenth Eye’s galley collapsed into the sea dragging men down with it.

Massive towers of water shot up around the galley, causing the attacking men to panic and waiver. The panic soon turned to fear, and the fear into outright mayhem as the sailors of the _Green Hand_ soon rallied and struck back, beginning to cut down the retreating brigands.

Taking the opportunity, Rickard knocked his head against Tenth Eye’s own, causing the sellsword to double back in pain, his nose dripping with blood. Going in for a final thrust, a killing blow to end this madness once and for all, Rickard reeled from the sudden shock of another explosion ringing out against the galley. Splinters and human limbs seemed to be painted against the blood red tint of the deck, only to be washed away as another wall of water erupted near them.

Soaked with the ice-cold waters of the Bite, Tenth Eye screamed, “Fall back! Back to the _Scourge_!”

Steadying himself on deck, Rickard rushed forward trying to capture the pirate captain before he could escape. But he could only watch helplessly as the one-eyed brigand swung back onto his ship with ease.

Turning back to his men, he raised his sword high. “Men of winter! To me!”

His personal retinue from Winterfell had formed up with their lord and proceeded to strike swiftly into the still-ensuing fray.

The pirates hastily made to climb back onto both their war galley and the _Merman’s Folly_ but from the bowels of the captured Manderly ship, dozens of men in clad in woolen blue coats and caps emerged from the below deck. With them, the liberated Northern sailors of the _Merman’s Folly_ , all armed to the teeth, ready to exact vengeance on their captors.

Nearly three score swords and spears acted as a pincer squeezing the panicking sellswords into a corridor of death. Some fell to the men of the _Green Hand_ , some to the men of the _Merman’s Folly_ , but what struck Rickard the most was the blue coated men.

Each bluecoat was armed with a strange looking spear and wore no armor, but all seemed to be uniformly dressed.

One particular bluecoat, armed with a curved sabre that seemed Dornish in style, led a detachment of men to the other side of the deck. He shouted a command at his men, and they aimed their spears at the surviving pirates as if they were crossbows.

 _What are those damned fools doing?_ He thought, as the melee continued around them.

Any criticisms he had, died the minute the bluecoat commander yelled, “Fire!”

Twenty piercing cracks, like wet canvas being shaken with a sudden violence, erupted from the spears and caused the same number of men on the retreating galley to drop dead.

“Reload!” He heard their commander shout.

By now the soldiers had begun to produce paper packets full of black powder and pour them down the apparently hollow spears, followed by a bullet that they would ram in with a rod secluded with in the spear.

It was a fascinating process to watch as they then attacked a small cap to the lever of their weapon, which they then pulled back, took aim with and fire. And fire they did. The sparks the emerged from the weapon caused a strange and acrid smoke to linger in the air.

The same cracking explosions to his left shook him out of his wonder as more pirates fell to the bluecoats’ weapons, and soon the last of the pirates were cornered by the Manderly sailors and bluecoats alike. By now Tenth Eye’s ship, the _Scourge_ , was rowing away and the _Merman’s Folly_ had been recaptured by her crew.

Pointing his sword at the surviving pirated, Rickard growled out, “Drop your arms.”

Resigned to their fate, the last of the pirates dropped their swords, spears, and bows as he gave orders to the captain of the _Green Hand_ to lock them in chains.

“Lord Stark.”

Turning to the voice, he was greeted with one of the sailors from the _Merman’s Folly._

“Ser Woolfield.” He greeted the young knight. “Where is your captain?”

“He was killed, my lord, by the pirates.”

Rickard could only nod as he mused on the young knight’s words.

“My lord, I wanted to introduce you to our rescuers.” The knight continued, as he led Rickard to one of the bluecoat commanders. “This is Captain Jerome. He’s in command of the soldiers who liberated us from captivity. Captain Jerome, this is our liege, Lord Rickard of House Stark.”

“Captain,” Rickard sheathed his sword as he greeted the bluecoat. “I must thank you for your assistance in rescuing my men.”

Stepping forward, the blue-coated captain snapped into an odd salute, his right hand resting flat at an angle against the side of his head. “Lord Stark, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

The two shook hands, as Rickard tried to get a read on the captain. His blue coat and cap was not dissimilar to how Errol had described. But the matching white trousers and belt were certainly odd. The chevrons on his sleeve looked almost exactly like the patterns of some of the landed knights down south if they were inverted like the captain’s. From what he could tell, the man was by no means uneducated. He seemed polite enough to understand the basic courtesies of the nobility, but he noticed that the man did not bow to him. Rickard did not regard himself as one to follow such stringent protocols of address and greeting, but the fact that the captain showed no regard in doing as such interested him.

 _Perhaps a quirk of their culture?_ He thought, a part of him hoping that these foreigners were not of the same regard as the sellswords that they had just repulsed.

“Forgive me for such directness, Lord Stark, but you wouldn’t perchance be the Lord of Winterfell?”

“I am. Who told you as such?”

“Some of the local fishermen. We’ve been wanting to talk to a person of authority for a while. They said we should be head to a place called White Harbor, but no one could give us a precise location. We sent someone earlier to a place called Sisterton to see if we can get in contact with any local leadership, but it had been a week since we dropped him off and still no answer. We would’ve looked for him, but we didn’t want to cause too much trouble, not that that matters now.” He answered, looking around at the aftermath of their battle.

“Well, I am the Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. Whatever business you desire to address, you may speak with me on the matter.”

“Excellent.” The captain broke out in a smile. “If I have your permission, I can bring you to my commanding officer. He’ll want to talk to you.”

With a hesitant nod, he turned to Ser Woolfield. “Fetch the Sisterman, Errol. Tell him to come with me.”

“Yes m’lord.” The knight responded as he went off to fulfill his duty.

Turning back to the bluecoat, he asked. “We have someone your people rescued from the sea a few days before. I would like him with us to confirm that you are the foreigners we’re looking for.”

“I understand, Lord Stark.” The bluecoat captain nodded.

**_“Aoooooooohhhhhh!”_ **

The noise had frightened most of the sailors, a few redrawing their swords, until Captain Jerome turned to the horizon and a smirk appeared on his face. Fast approaching was the outline of three black ships. But these were different from the pirate galley that they had encountered. The ships were longer, larger, with their sails unfurled of which there seemed to be enough to service no less than ten galleys. But what stood out to Rickard the most were the two massive wheels that were flanking both sides of the lead ship.

_It’s just as the Sisterman described._

“I apologize if the flagship alarmed your men, Lord Stark.” Captain Jerome smiled slyly. “I assure you Commodore Sullivan will be most welcome by your presence.”

He could only turn to nod at the captain as he watched some of the bluecoat soldiers climb down from a ladder on the _Green Hand_ into two smaller white boats. As the black vessels neared the two Manderly ships, Rickard’s eye seemed to be filled with the flagship alone. His eyes followed the ship’s immense length, trailing across the deck to the massive side-wheels, and up the large chimney spewing out puffs of black smoke. His eyes then caught the familiar banner that he had seen back in White Harbor waving atop one of the masts.

“That’s it, milord.”

Errol appeared from behind with a blue coat wrapped around him, presumably granted to him by one of the soldiers. “That’s the black ship.”

Nodding he turned to find the captain of the _Green Hand_ and gave his instructions as to what to do with the captured mercenaries-turned-pirates and what to do should these foreigners turn out to be of the same stock. Fetching his surviving guards, and the bundle that Errol had first delivered to him, he found a waiting Captain Jerome out on deck.

“Lord Stark, are you ready?”

Giving only a plain nod to the captain, he was gestured to the rope ladder where he climbed down onto one of the smaller white boats. He noted with interest as he saw a number of sailors clad in a white tunics and caps manning the oars. Once the Northern party had boarded, the ship rowed toward their flagship.

Its shadow draped over him, Lord Stark looked up at the black ship as a line was thrown down to pull them close.

 _Now it begins,_ Rickard thought grimly.

Reaching out, he grabbed one of the steps protruding from the ship and climbed aboard.

* * *

_"Let us have faith that right makes might, and in that faith, let us, to the end, dare to do our duty as we understand it."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took a while to write, because I kept find myself writing Rickard more and more as if he were just a proto-Ned Stark, but I think I was able to establish his character being similar yet different to how Ned was written.  
> And while there's not much shown of Lyarra, I have ideas for future fics in this series that'll feature her more than this little glimpse.
> 
> Next up, the Vale...


	3. THE FALCON AND THE MOON

**The Vale – 265 A.C. / 1860 A.D.**

* * *

Her husband had received the message from Lord Owen Sunderland whilst she was helping to prepare her good-brother’s funeral. A dark-winged raven bearing the news of a strange black ship arriving at Sisterton seemed too strange for him to deal with now. As the Silent Sisters prepared Lord Jasper for his journey with the Stranger, she worried about her husband’s state of mind.

If her lord husband felt any sorrow, than he managed to hide it well from her. She had known Jon Arryn since she had fostered in the Eyrie when they were children, and she knew that he was not to be one to lie about his feelings. But she had deduced long ago that he was just as reserved as his friend up in the North. And while she understood the desire, Rowena also knew that it was unhealthy for their marriage to continue in such a state.

He had been through more than his fair share of grief in the last five years. His first wife died during during childbirth, the babe passing as well. Then his father succumbed to a winter fever, only two years past. Then the news arrived only a week ago that his brother Ser Ronnel died of an illness of the stomach, and only a few days after his son’s birth.

And now in the midst of their grief, a message that could herald trouble at their very gates arrived to add to his worries.

Walking through the halls of the Eyrie, she found her husband hunched over on his seat, staring over the mountains through the opened Moon Door.

“Remember when we were children, and I would always beg you to show me the Moon Door?”

“Yes.” He slowly turned his head to her, a soft smile forming on his face. “You said that you wished you could be a falcon so you can leap through those doors without fear.”

“I recall more than a few times I almost did.”

“And who do you think kept you from falling?”

Rowena smiled at the fond memory, her hand finding its way to his. She recalled how he would hold her hand whenever she looked down at rocks below the Moon Door, and how he would say to her, _“It’s alright Row. If you fall, I’ll be there to catch you.”_

But they were only children then, cousins. Now they were husband and wife, and she feared she could not do the same for him.

“Are you alright Jon?” She asked. “You’ve been awfully quiet since you got the letter from Lord Sunderland.”

“I’m alright, Row.” He patted her hand gently. “It’s only a mild pain in my eyes.”

“A mild pain? Jon, have you seen a maester about this?”

“There’s no need. It’ll pass.”

“Jon, if this is about Ronnel…”

“By the Seven, Row! It isn’t about Ronnel!”

“Then what is it about, my love?” She pleaded, setting herself on her knees at his side. “You’ve been in this melancholy state for months now. If it was about your father or your brother, I might understand, but you always claim it’s not. Please, Jon! Just… just help me understand.”

He remained silent, staring fervently at her. She could see the slightest glint of tears at the edge of her husband’s eyes. “I feel as if… as if I have failed you.”

“Jon… how – ”

“It has been two years since we’ve wed, and you are yet without child.”

“Jon, I – ”

“Please, let me finish.” He interrupted. “I do not fault you for it, my dear. But I do know the pressure that has been put upon you since you’ve taken up the ladyship of the Eyrie.”

Jon paused, taking a moment to gaze upon her expression. She wished she could say that she was the soul of reassurance, but his words were worrisome to her ears. _He has never talked about such things before. Why now?_

“I was considering, in the event that we should not have any children, making my brother’s son my heir.”

_Oh._

He continued, “I was about to draft a letter to Lady Maryssa, but I had not taken your feelings on the matter into account. I was about to tell you, but then I feared how you would take the news. I’m sorry, Row.”

Jon’s words lit a fire of warmth in her heart. She had feared the worst ever since he started growing distant in the wake of Ronnel’s death. The unspoken whispers in the back of her mind that told her that he was disappointed by their lack of children, that he thought her barren, that he no longer had any love for her were soon snuffed out, their burning embers no longer aflame.

“Jon…” She breathed out, tears in her eyes. “My silly Jon. How could I ever hold this against you? You know me just as I know you. And while, I admit that I am ever so slightly offended that you would take such a course of action without my knowing, I am grateful that you trust me – nay, _love me_ enough to let your intentions on such matter be known.”

“Rowena…” He started, standing up from his chair, his hands squeezing hers. “I… I…”

“Hush now, my love.” She smiled, leaning in to kiss her husband.

Rowena had shared many kisses with Jon since they had wed, but this moment felt near otherworldly. The breeze from the opened Moon Doors rushed in chilling her bones but emphasizing his warmth. The twilight of the setting sun casting the shadow of their keep over the mountain range, as if to keep their love hidden and tucked away from those who would seek to tear them apart. His lips were rough and chapped from the cool mountain air, but she did not care.

She could have sworn that she had dreamt of such kisses in her youth when she was not yet flowered and he on the cusp of manhood, when she stared in heartbreak at Jon’s first wedding when he said his vows to Jeyne Royce, when she received the news that she would be finally be betrothed to him.

Breaking their kiss, she looked up at him through her lashed with a humble smile. “My love, since you care for my thoughts on the matter, I shall tell you what you will do.”

She ran a hand over his cheek before continuing, “You will write to Lady Belmore in the morning confirming as such that until I give you a son, her little Elbert will be the heir to the Eyrie.”

“Row, a-are you sure?” Jon asked, worriedly.

“I am sure, my lord husband.” She answered coyly. “For tonight, you and I will be working to ensure that Ronnel’s son will not have such a burden on his shoulders.”

The look he gave her was equal parts loving, as it was voracious.

A surge of confidence rushing through them both, their lips collided once more as their love for each other coerced their bodies into pressing into the other. She might have even thought that their passions would happen right there, if a gust of wind hadn’t suddenly slammed the Moon Door shut.

Breaking apart at the sudden noise, the looked to each other before sharing a small laugh. She remembered their first night abed, and how they were both so nervous that they had almost laughed their way through the bedding.

With a smile on his face and love in his eyes, Jon held out his hand to her. Rowena, with confidence and love in return, settled her hand in his. With small chuckles of mirth, they both strolled through the halls and up to their room.

_I love him as he loves me._

_How can a child not be born from such love?_

The mountain gales would keep their love private that night.

* * *

The days leading up to the funeral were filled with strange stories pouring in from the north. The message from Lord Sunderland had only arrived to them a week ago, and already rumors about more black ships appearing throughout the Bite were spreading like the plague. In particular, a story about Jon’s friend Lord Rickard Stark, stood out the most. Strange tales started to appear of black ships spitting fire and smoke upon raiders, setting Lord Stark’s ships down to the depths of the sea.

As it goes, after Jon sent a raven to Lord Sunderland telling him how he should proceed, a letter appeared from Lord Stark explaining that he took it upon himself to investigate the claims. Rowena was unsure about the Northern lord, but from what Jon had told him, he was an honorable man and had once saved his life during the last Blackfyre Rebellion. But after nearly another week, there was still no response.

She could tell that Jon was concerned, and she would not be surprised if he had ordered an expedition to set sail in order to find out his fate. But a raven from White Harbor assuaged her husband’s fears. Having read the message herself, she was slightly confused as to the nature of Lord Stark’s words.

> **_My friend,_ **
> 
> **_Foreign ships appeared in the Bite, new island found east of Longsister. Come at once._ **
> 
> **_Signed, Lord Rickard Stark_ **

Rowena could only ponder the meaning of the words. _A new island? East of Longsister?_

There was no land east of the Three Sisters for miles, not until the shores of the Neck. She was worried about what Lord Stark had found, both for herself and for Jon.

‘Come at once’ was abundantly clear to her, and Jon was nearly ready to do so for his old friend. But to do such would mean him missing the funeral of her brother, and he knew that their family would take offense at his absence from such an important event.

She wished she could say that it took little convincing on her part to have Jon delay his departure, but in truth he was so dead set on the endeavor that she had almost descended to having him chained up.

“By the Seven, Row! I know the offense that this will cause, but something like this is unprecedented!”

“As is the funeral of our cousin, Jon!”

“My love, surely your presence alone will be enough to represent our family at the funeral.”

“You are the Lord Paramount of the Vale! You are the head of the house! I’m only – ”

“You are the _Lady Paramount_ of the Vale. You are as much the head of the house as I, and I _trust_ you to be there for our family in this most desperate time of need while I fulfill my duties as Lord of the Vale.”

Rowena’s heart all but burst in frustration at Jon’s words. The fact that he trusted her to represent the Eyrie swelled something wonderful in her chest, but it did little to take away the feeling that she would only do as much so that her husband could rescue his Northern friend.

In the end, he agreed to compromise. He would leave on the day of the funeral, but not until the ceremony was over.

The morning of the funeral brought with it a whole slew of nerves that she had not realized were pent up inside of her. When she emptied the contents of her stomach into a chamber pot, much to her husband’s concern, he almost cancelled his journey to White Harbor altogether.

They shared a laugh when the maester confirmed that it was only an upset stomach.

“My silly Jon, if I’d known that this was all it took to keep you here, I would have feigned an affliction weeks ago.”

Despite their smiles, Rowena didn’t miss the worried glint in Jon’s eyes.

The funeral was, as expected, a somber affair. As the Silent Sisters readied Ronnel’s body for his journey to the heavens, she could not help but feel for her goodsister. Whilst the septon was giving his sermon, she spotted Lady Maryssa, dressed in black and doing her best to hold her tears back as she held her son in her arms.

She desperately wanted to go over to her and hold her in an embrace. It baffled her as to why Lady Maryssa seemed stalwart in restraining her emotions. A funeral should be the one place where such tears could flow unrestrained.

When she asked her goodsister as such, her answer shook Rowena to her core.

_“I fear that my tears will never cease flowing.”_

Rowena’s heart broke once more for her. She could not imagine how it must feel to lose someone who held your heart to such a degree. Images of Jon’s body, cold and lifeless, filled her head. She endeavored not to think of such things, especially since he planned to investigate the strange occurrences up in the Bite.

 _That should be Lord Sunderland’s job, not my sweet Jon’s_ , she thought bitterly. _After all, it was the Sisterman who shirked in his duties, not my husband._

She kissed Jon for a moment longer than what was appropriate, before he saddled his horse and rode through the Gates of the Moon.

“You will be the Lady of the Eyrie now, Row. I trust you. I love you.”

“And I love you, my silly Jon.” She smiled, wiping the tears from her eyes. Perhaps now she had something of an understanding of Lady Maryssa’s words. “Take care.”

As she watched her husband leave, she tried not to think of the death that had plagued her family in the recent years. She knew that Jon would return to her, safe and sound.

High above in the clouds, she could hear the faint cry of a falcon.

* * *

Having fostered in the Eyrie, Rowena understood the need of ladies’ gossip. The rumor mill in Gulltown, while plentiful, left her taking for granted the influx of whispered words of outlandish tales, and the desire to divine fact from fiction.

As such, in the months following her husband’s departure north, she could not help but take in the influx of rumors that spilled from merchants, journeying lords, and hedge knights stopping by the Eyrie. Some of the stories seemed outright lies. Black ships powered by the breath of dragons, sellswords from Asshai who wielded fire-spears that utilized the power of their Red God, and strangers in blue coats who wrote the Common Tongue in a different language all seemed ridiculous to her ears.

And yet with each passing day and each new traveler, the same rumors were heard. All varying in one way or another, yet all seemed to hold a constant theme; black ships and blue men.

It was nearing a month since her husband had ventured north at the behest of Lord Rickard. In the intervening time, he had written only two letters to her. Both of which seemed to lack in any specific detail the foreigners up in the Bite.

She was worried. Rowena knew that her husband trusted her in most things, if not all. Her position as the ruling Arryn in the Vale, left no doubts in her mind. Yet, she could not help but wonder what was keeping Jon away. Was the nature of these foreigners so strange that it required both Stark and Arryn to meet out their purpose?

_Or perhaps, they are waiting on news from King’s Landing?_

Rowena set aside her worries as she walked down from her chambers in the Moon Tower and to the maester’s office. She had contended with more upset stomachs in the past two weeks, hurling into a chamber pot each morn, and each time she contributed it to a mild sickness of the belly. But recalling how Ronnel died from an affliction of the stomach, she decided to go to the maester. She did not feel like she was ill, but to occur every morn was something of an oddity.

After taking some tests, followed by a rough assessment, the maester paused in contemplation before finally asking a question that she did not expect.

“My lady, when did you last bleed?”

Her eyes must have been as wide as saucers, they definitely felt as such. “A little over a month and a half ago.”

“A month and a half you say?” A smile grew on his face. “Well, I can confidently say that you are not ill, my lady.”

“If I’m not ill, then – ”

“Then, I hope you would allow me to be the first to congratulate you.”

Rowena’s heart fluttered at the implication of the maester’s words. “Y- You mean, I’m…”

“You are with child, my lady.”

With those words, the world seemed to melt away. All the fear and anxiety of the past month was replaced with joy and mirth. She wanted to laugh and scream in delight. She wanted the world to know. She wanted her Jon to know.

The day seemed to pass by in a haze, as she sat on the Weirwood Throne and governed the affairs of the Eyrie. For the first time in years, she felt as if her life was finally coming together. The hardships of the past years now seemed to be worth the pain now that there was new life growing inside of her.

The raven she received from White Harbor the following only added to her joy.

> **_My dearest Row,_ **
> 
> **_Compromise reached with foreigners, Lord Stark to host them at White Harbor, will return to you in fortnight._ **
> 
> **_Signed, Your silly Jon_ **

Soon she would be in the arms of her husband once more. She could just picture his face as she told him the news of their child.

He would find her standing in the Crescent Chamber, and his face would morph into one of weariness to pure bliss. He would hug her in that special way, tucking her under his chin. His bannerman would laugh and jest at how the stern and proper Lord of the Vale would become a lovesick bird at the sight of his wife. She would pretend to take offense, and he would glare at them, missing the playful tone in her voice.

Then she would place his hands on her womb and tell him of their child to be. And he would laugh heartily, in that way he only does with her. They would kiss and he would guide her to their chambers in the Moon Tower. And all would be perfect.

“My lady!” One of the household guard ran up to her. “A message from the Knight of the Gate. He says that he spotted banners coming up the high road, and a Targaryen banner at the van.”

“Targaryen? Are you sure?”

“Yes, my lady.”

_Targaryen banners this far north can only mean one thing: the king!_

“Send for Ser Hyram. Tell him that there are royal banners on their way.”

“Yes, m’lady.”

As the guard walked away, a myriad of thoughts encompassed her mind. What business could be so important that a royal party would deem it necessary to venture here?

She wondered blithely if it involved the compromise Jon had mentioned in his message. But then, why would the king venture to the Eyrie at all if the business with the foreigners was up in White Harbor?

_There’s no use dwelling as such. Soon they’ll be at the Gates of the Moon, and then here._

Putting on her finest dress, she smoothed out her hair, and had her maids style it in a uniquely Valeman’s fashion. She would be representing House Arryn after all, and she would take pride in her heritage.

As the last glimpses of sunlight seeped through the clouds, she could see from her window a small party being led by two banners, one black with a red figure – a dragon, she assumed – and the other a red banner whose sigil was too small to make out.

With a calming breath, Rowena made her way to the Crescent Chamber. The fires in its four hearths were being stoked to ward off the last breaths of winter. She could see the household gathered in uniform order, her ladies-in-waiting, the attending lords, the household guard with their sky-blue cloaks. Banners were lowered with the sigil of House Arryn, ready and waiting to receive the royal party.

The wooden doors of the Falcon’s Gate opened to reveal the host from King’s Landing. Flying from their banners, the infamous three-headed dragon of House Targaryen drew in a feeling of magnanimous awe. Yet the other banner, the one directly behind the leader of the procession, was unexpected. Held by a page clad in a deep red cloak, the crimson banner flew resplendent as it waved to all in the Vale the sigil of a gold lion.

This was not the king, but Rowena knew exactly who this was.

“My lord.” She bowed, addressing the leader of the procession. “Welcome to the Eyrie. The hospitality of House Arryn is yours.”

“You have my thanks, Lady Arryn.” The leader of the group replied in greeting. His voice was not unlike how she imagined, based on the stories about him. His hair was as gold as his sigil, and his eyes as deadly too.

“It is nothing short of an honor to host the Hand of the King.” She smiled cordially. She turned to her attendants and commanded them to see to the needs of their new guests. The small group consisted of Merryweather, Darklyn, and Lefford banners. To her right she could see a Kingsguard knight under the Targaryen banner.

“May I ask what brings the Hand of the King all the way to our mountains?”

“Business, my lady.” The crimson clad leader nodded. “The king received a letter from Lord Arryn, speaking of a strange state of affairs occurring up near the Sisters. His Grace sent me to investigate.”

“Of course. I am assuming you desire to wait here for my husband’s return.”

“Indeed. We have much to discuss with your husband.”

“Indeed, we do.” Her fingers hovering slightly over her womb. “Please, enjoy the hospitality of the Eyrie, my lord. Ser Hyram will show you to your rooms.”

She smiled as she gestured through the open doors of the keep.

Giving only a single nod, she watched with fascination as Tywin Lannister was led through the halls of her home.

* * *

_"Those who are really in earnest must be willing to be anything or nothing in the world's estimation."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to give something of a personality to Jon Arryn that was something other than "father figure to Ned and Robert". I also wanted to lend some life to Rowena Arryn, given that all we have of her is that she was married to Jon and was a cousin.
> 
> Next up: the Westerlands.


	4. THE LION

**The Westerlands – 266 A.C. / 1861 A.D.**

* * *

Joanna found that Casterly Rock, despite the harsh shadow it cast, was always beautiful during the early days of spring.

The western coast seemed to come alive with the chirping of songbirds and the honking cry of gulls. From Lannisport below, the noise of city life seemed more fervent and fresher now that the harsh snows of winter had passed. For the people of the Westerlands, life began anew.

And yet despite the joy and relief felt throughout many in her holdings, Joanna Lannister could not help but feel as if she were under more pressure than ever before. As she sat in her chambers in Casterly Rock, perched high above the hustle and bustle of the city below, her mind could not help but drift to the swell in her stomach. Her baby-to-be had been quite active in the past month, always kicking in her womb and waking her up earlier than she would have liked. It tended to make her quite irate in the early morning hours, much to the concern of the staff and servants at the Rock. She was already quite strict enough as a ruling lady, but to think what her husband would do if he had found out about any discomfort that they had caused her, deserved even a modicum of her sympathy.

Such annoyances were to be expected however, given that her husband was busy serving as Hand of the King. And in his place, she was to take charge of the Rock as well as handle the affairs of the Westerlands.

It had been some time since she had heard from her Tywin. His last raven was sent a few months ago, before the start of the new year, from the Eyrie of all places. He had shared with her news of strange happenings near the Three Sisters. Foreign envoys in large, black ships wishing to have an audience with the king. Seeing as he was Aerys’s Hand, it only made sense for her husband to assess the status of these foreigners.

_But did that mad fool Aerys really have to send Tywin himself?_

The difficulties of running the Rock seemed to pale in comparison to the worry she felt for her husband’s safety. Had he been here, he would have said himself that she had nothing to concern herself about. And she knew that to be true. He was a veteran of the Stepstones and his actions at Castamere and Tarbeck Hall proved that he would not be outmatched by those lesser than him. Yet, a small treacherous part of her would always be concerned for him. Not that she would ever admit as such.

She was a Lannister, a proud lion of the West. And she would be damned to the Seven Hells before she so much as let an ounce of fear control her. Her house words would attest as such.

A knock on her solar door, rescued her from her fears. “Enter.”

A servant arrived, with a message in hand. It bore the royal seal. “This just arrived, my lady.”

Accepting the letter, she dismissed the servant and waited until he had left before breaking the seal and reading it. It was from Rhaella.

> **_My dear friend,_ **
> 
> **_It has been far too long since we had last spoken to each other. I had hoped to be able to visit in person in time for your child’s birth, but circumstances here prevent me from doing as such. No doubt you have heard by now that your husband has been in negotiations with the foreigners that arrived last year. Tywin has invited a party of them to treat with my husband in King’s Landing. They have graciously accepted the invitation and will be arriving in the fortnight._ **
> 
> **_I cannot deny that I am concerned about their arrival. Ever since we received the message of Tywin’s invitation, Aerys has become ever more unpredictable. If the rumors coming from the North are true., then I worry about what this will mean for the kingdoms._ **
> 
> **_If all is to be well, then I will try to petition my husband to relieve yours of his duty so that he may be with you for your children’s birth._ **
> 
> **_Yours faithfully,_ **
> 
> **_Rhae_ **

A smile crept onto her face as she finished the letter. Despite her disdain for the king, she had a fond friendship with the queen that stretched back to childhood. When her father had sent her to the Red Keep to serve as a lady for Princess Rhaella, she had found an unexpected kinship with her along with the heiress to Dorne. She remembered her father’s praise when he had found out that she had forged close ties to not just one, but two princesses.

The honeyed days of freedom and frolic could not last. When Rhaella’s marriage to Aerys was announced, she and Loreza had been so happy for her. But they knew of their friend’s affections for another, a simple hedge knight from the Stormlands.

She recalled how Rhaella had wept silently on her shoulder that day. Little did they know that one day their roles would be reversed.

It was at Joanna’s wedding that Aerys had attempted more than his fair share of liberties during the bedding ceremony. Her heart broke when she was given her dismissal from the court by Rhaella.

_“Please, Rhae! I’m your friend!” She cried out in sorrow, her voice echoing through her chambers._

_“I know, Joanna. That is precisely why I am doing this.” Rhaella answered, with all the regality her title afforded. “You will not have to bear the brunt of Aerys’s actions.”_

_“Do you think that I was to blame for the rumors? The lies? For the king’s wandering hands?”_

_“Be grateful, my friend, that it was only his hands that wandered.” Rhaella bit back._

_“You do. You blame me.” Her heart felt heavy, and tears threatened to burst._

_Before she could anticipate it, Rhaella had her in an embrace, causing Joanna’s tears to pour out unabashed. Just this once, the Lioness would weep._

_“I do not blame you, Joanna.” Rhae whispered into her ear. “But I’ve seen this behavior in Aerys before. He has not tried to force himself on you yet, but he will if you stay.”_

_Joanna leaned back from the embrace, her eyes widening at her friend’s words._

_“That is why you have to go.”_

_“B- but I can’t leave my husband… ” She started._

_“Lord Tywin will understand.” Rhaella assured her. “If anything, he’ll wholeheartedly approve. He loves you so much. You do not know how fortunate you are to have the love that you and he share.”_

_Wiping her tears from her eyes, she took a breath and for the first time really considered what Rhaella was giving her: a chance to escape._

_All at once, tears threatened to burst one more as she considered that while Joanna had been shamed by the scandal, it was Rhaella who suffered from it. She knew the poisonous words that flowed like rivers through the Red Keep. They will say that the queen could not keep her husband in check, could not provide him satisfaction in the bedroom, could not give him another child that wasn’t doomed to die._

_“I’m so sorry Rhae.”_

_“You, of all people, have nothing to apologize for.”_

_They embraced once more; two friends doomed to be apart by the tyranny of a mad man. The next day, she had packed her things and was ready to set out back to the Rock._

_She remembered Tywin’s parting kiss, how sweet it seemed and how loving his eyes were. She remembered Loreza’s kind words and parting promises that she would visit her at Casterly Rock. She remembered Rhaella’s grim visage from the window of her apartment’s in Maegor’s Holdfast._

It all felt like a strange dream to her now.

_We were so young then, and so naïve._

Casting her mind back to the letter, she noted the subtext of concern that seemed to underly her friend’s words. The invitation of these foreigners was by no means a small thing.

A merchant from White Harbor had arrived in Lannisport only the week before, and he spoke about foreigners in blue coats arriving in ships that spewed smoke and sailed on the sea as if they were wagons on paved roads. He told of how these strangers had arrived on an island, unknown to the Seven Kingdoms, and how the people of the Sisters had begun speculating that these men were sent here by the gods.

She initially brushed off the stories as nothing more than exaggerated nonsense; tall tales from sailors who had little to do whilst they traveled between ports. But then, more rumors started flooding in from the East, how the Lord of Winterfell was hosted by them, how he had invited Lord Arryn of the Vale to serve as witness to the existence of an uncharted island in the Bite. And then a raven from her husband, on behalf of Lady Rowena Arryn, speaking of how Lord Tywin Lannister was invited to the Eyrie to treat with these newfound peoples.

It all sounded like old wives’ tales about the Age of Heroes, or flowery songs about the glory of Aegon’s Conquest. Whether the stories about these people’s wonders were true or not, the fact remained that a foreign people had arrived on the shores of Westeros. And they seemed determined to cultivate some form of relationship with the realm.

Joanna worried what this would mean for her family, but a part of her could not help but be intrigued as well.

She knew that the stories about these foreigners had been consistent in their details. If these people truly possessed such wonders, then perhaps they could be used to the benefit of the Lannister cause. But she knew that to take such a course of action could just as well be the Lannisters’ doom.

More information was needed, more knowledge pried from those who had encountered these people.

The movement in her stomach caught her attention, as she saw her baby kicking inside of her. She smiled at the slight movements. Her baby would be an energetic sort. A son, strong and willful, to inherit the legacy she and her husband had built. Or a daughter, beautiful and elegant with a mind as quick as her own, who would be the envy of the kingdoms.

_Oh, my little cub. If only your father could be here to hear your roar._

* * *

It was during his stay at Gulltown, that Tywin Lannister decided that the Americans were a strange people.

The meeting with Jon Arryn had gone as well as he had expected, and while he was initially skeptical on the intentions of these foreigners, they had proved to be genuine in their desire to foster relations with the realm. Still, he had remained apprehensive by the Lord of the Vale’s unsettled words.

_“I would advise, my lord, not to antagonize these people. They hide their motives in plain sight.”_

He had initially scoffed at the Valeman’s words of warning, but he took his message to heart when he was greeted at the port of Gulltown by a massive ship of war. It was painted black, darker than the royal colors, and seemed to loom over the other ships at the port. Jutting out from its sides were two wheels that seemed to be responsible for providing movement to the vessel. He had asked Lord Grafton’s maester how such a thing could be possible, and whilst he failed to provide an answer, had reasonably deduced that it was connected to the strange metal chimney spewing black smoke.

A gangplank was lowered, and down strode a group of men that appeared to be dressed in a uniformly ostentatious manner. He was sure that he had not seen the color blue in so many times as he did that day. The leader, a middle-aged man with a queer black hat folded and adorned with feathers, introduced himself as Commodore Frederick Sullivan.

Tywin noted that whilst he appeared no less intelligent than that fat flower from the Reach, a trained eye could see that it was a front, hiding any true sense of character.

_So, this is what Lord Arryn has been quivering about._

Americans they were called, according to Lord Arryn, and they had apparently arrived through the most disconcerting circumstances. The Commodore had explained how they were from a realm that they called the ‘United States’ and how a strange island appeared in one of their bays, an island with a mountainous cavern on its eastern shore that appeared to flow into the Bite. He went on to describe how local merchants had described the strange nature of the cavern, specifically the words they used.

_“Another world.”_

It was difficult enough for these foreigners, these Americans, to believe but it was damned near impossible for Tywin. And yet, there seemed to be some credence to their words. Lord Arryn professed being of a similar mind to him, until Lord Stark invited him north where he was hosted by these people.

The negotiations that followed went without incident, but there were certain details that seemed to emphasize a difference between the two parties. The first clear indication was the language. When it came to the spoken word, their was little difference between their tongue and the Common Tongue. But when he was asked to look over documents that they had wanted the king to sign, there were noticeable differences in their written script.

A whole series of quirks in their mannerisms seemed to pour out of them from that point onward. From the way the laughed, to their casual tone, to their liberal usage of swearing, and the strange dried leaves that they would smoke in their pipes, all seemed to point Tywin to an interesting conclusion: They were not nobility.

He expected as much from the officers, but the Commodore, despite his poise and manners, was not of noble blood as well.

_From a ruling family perhaps?_

He decided that he would need more information.

A feast held at Lord Marq Grafton’s manse in honor of the foreign guest, proved the perfect opportunity to test the nature of these Americans.

Music and feasting were plentiful as Lord Grafton seemed keen to impress his status to the Americans. The hall was filled with knights and bannermen from all over the Vale, and at the high table sat the Commodore along with most of his officers. He noted with curiosity how in awe they seemed to be with the affair, much to Grafton’s pleasure.

They engaged with guests liberally, both highborn and lowborn. He spotted the captain of the black ship, a stout man called Erinmore, engage in conversation with one of Lord Arryn’s stewards. Tywin also noted, with interest, that they did not drink as much as the other guests. Even he had managed to drink a second cup of wine, and yet none of the other Americans seemed to finish their first cups.

_So, they’ve proven they can exercise restraint._

“You look surprised Commodore,” Tywin began, “Do you not have feasts such as this in your land?”

“I must admit we do not, Lord Tywin.” He answered, gazing at the festivities around him. “But my surprise comes from the extent of generosity you’ve shown in hosting us.”

“We are a most generous people, especially to those newcomers to our shores.” Lord Grafton interrupted, drawing a small glare from Tywin.

“Indeed.” Sullivan nodded. “The so-called _genteel_ folk down in Dixie could learn a thing or two from you fine gentlemen.”

“Dixie?” Tywin questioned.

“Ah, yes. Dixie _._ ” Sullivan said with a derisive grin. “It’s a nickname we have for the South, _our_ South.”

“Oh? You don’t seem to hold your Southerners to a high standard.”

“Would that I dared to hold those men of esteem to such a regard.”

“May I ask why?” Tywin asked, his brow raised in curiosity.

Sullivan sighed at his question, and the retinue of naval officers around him appeared to grow nervous at the Young Lion’s line of inquiry. The question seemed to garner the attention of the other lords at the high table, some of them turning to face the Americans. A few of the wretches down on the lower tables seemed to have heard as well given that their bombastic conversation managed to lower in volume significantly.

“Before I answer your question, Lord Tywin, I must ask,” the Commodore took a pause before tentatively resuming, “what is the view of the Seven Kingdoms regarding slavery?”

Now of all the questions, Tywin Lannister expected he’d be confronted with, that was certainly not one of them.

“Slavery?” He hummed in feigned apprehension. “Slavery is described as heretical and immoral in our religion; thus, it is illegal throughout the Seven Kingdoms.”

“Is slavery legal in your realm?” Lord Arryn asked with concern.

“The answer to that is rather… complex.” Sullivan started tentatively. “But the short of it is that it is not outlawed.”

Most of the lords at the high table managed a brief look of discomfort, before settling down. He almost rolled his eyes at the pettiness of some of the Valemen. After all, with their proximity to the Narrow Sea, it was not as if they hadn’t dealt and dined with slavers before. He could recall spotting one or two merchant captains from the Free Cities dining with some of the other guests in the hall.

_They feign sanctimonious offense just to gain an air of superiority over these foreigners._

He would’ve given it no mind, but the uncomfortable looks among the American officers told of a deeper story. They seemed almost divided on the issue, some lightly shaking their heads at the Commodore’s words and others nodding in grim silence. He decided to press the point further.

“Why do you say it is complex?” Tywin asked directly.

“It is complex because of the unique nature of our form of government.” Sullivan started. “Simply put, we do not have kings nor queens nor any positions of royal or noble authority.”

Now that statement proved to be a genuine shock to the gathered lords. Even Tywin had to admit that it was an admission he did not foresee.

“As the name implies, the United States is made up of multiple states that have their own governments, elected by the people, who oversee the affairs within their own state. Leading this union of states is the federal government, which is also elected by the people, whose job it is to oversee all matters regarding the whole union. Not too dissimilar from your kingdom, as you can see.” He started calmly, his words precise and calculating. “Now, our country was founded on the principle of personal liberties, the right to freedom of speech, religion, and so-on. This includes the right to own property.”

Tywin’s brow crooked slightly, understanding the implied meaning.

_Property, such as slaves._

The Commodore continued, “Since the federal government cannot interfere in the rights to personal property, the matter of the legality of slavery is left up to the individual states. Those states in the southern half of our country have elected to make slavery legal, while those in the north have made it illegal. Thus, is the current state of affairs in our country.”

All those sitting in the high table had expressions of shock and curiosity at the Commodore’s description. It was almost unheard of in the known world for there to be so great a divide within a realm as the one described. Even the Seven Kingdoms, which had to contest with the differences between those above the Neck and below, were not so divided on any issue as the United States seemed to be on slavery.

Tywin sat still, a polite smile plastered on his face, as he pondered the implications of what the Commodore had said.

_So, it would appear that these “United States of America” are not as united as they so adamantly claim to be._

Save for that tense moment, the feast continued without much incident. Whilst Tywin would have preferred to press the Commodore further, Lord Arryn decided to move on to another topic to ease the mood of their guests. Tywin agreed as such, despite his desire to know more. There would be other opportunities to gather information of these Americans.

After working for nearly two months with the maester to translate and transcribe the documents the Americans had drawn up, he sent a message back to King’s Landing explaining the presence of these foreigners and how they desired to meet with the king.

As they waited for a confirmation from Aerys, Tywin considered all he had learned about the Americans in their time at Gulltown.

He recalled at their welcome feast that they claimed to have no royalty or nobility and that all of their leaders were chosen by and amongst their population. He scoffed just thinking about the concept. An entire realm governed by the whims of smallfolk was a notion that seemed impossible, let alone impracticable.

_They make the art of governance into nothing more than a popularity contest._

He briefly reconsidered the foolishness of the notion. After all, Volantis’s triarchs were chosen by the same process, so perhaps the Americans had managed to work out a way for this queer system of governance to function by their standards. But that notion was swiftly quashed during the cartography exchange.

They had offered to show Lord Tywin a full map of their nation and where the mysterious island they had sailed through was located on it, in exchange for a map of Westeros. As soon as he set his eyes on their country’s map, he immediately thought them the utmost fools for allowing themselves to be governed by their smallfolk. America, as it turned out, was the size of nearly all of the southern kingdoms and was large enough to possibly challenge the North in size.

_How these people have not yet descended into chaos is beyond comprehension._

Further adding to his concern was the powerful nature of the weapons they wielded. After hearing the tale of Lord Stark’s rescue, Tywin had asked the Commodore if he would be willing to organize a demonstration of their weapons. With a mischievous smirk, he politely accepted with the added condition that he only do so for him and Lord Arryn. While a strange request, he accepted.

They met at the archery range of Lord Grafton’s training grounds, just outside the city. He suspected it was for the sake of privacy, but he could not be sure. He had a small number of guards accompany him, but they were still outnumbered by the Americans. They had set up a set of targets at the end of the range, as well as some straw-and-wooden dummies. A group of bluecoated soldiers that they called ‘marines’ had formed up in a line. Each had one of the supposed smoke-and-powder staves that they were rumored to have. The captain of the marines then barked out a series of orders.

“Stand ready!... Take aim!...”

The soldiers held up their staves, aiming them like crossbows.

“… Fire!”

**_*BANG*_ **

Fifteen loud flashes of light spewed out of the end of their staves, each managing to penetrate the target nearly 50 yards away.

“Reload!”

Immediately, each soldier began to reload their weapon. It would appear that the cause of the damage to the archery targets was a lead projectile that came encased in a paper wrapping. He noted with interest how each marine would load a measure of black powder into the stave before loading the projectile.

_Ingenious. But I wonder, what causes the spark that ignites the powder?_

After a few minutes of sustained fire, a group of sailors brought forward a large bronze tube attached to a carriage. He noted the strange double cylinder they had loaded into it. Tywin was prepared to be further impressed, but nothing in his experience could comprehend what he was about to see that day.

A man with an oddly shaped pin with a length of cord inserted in it stepped forward. He placed the pin in hole at the base of the bronze. After a few moments spent checking their aim, the captain held out his hand and gave the order.

“FIRE!”

**_*BOOM*_ **

A flash of smoke shot out and in the blink of an eye all of the straw dummies had been eviscerated, whisps of straw being the only proof that they had once stood.

Lord Arryn had seemed horrified, despite his admission that he had seen, at least the smoke-and-powder staves, before. The Commodore, as well as the ship’s captain looked perfectly nonplussed, despite the air of confidence and superiority he felt emanating from their martial poise.

_They wanted us to see this._

_They wanted **me** to see this._

It was a bitter draught to swallow, but he could not help but admit but be thoroughly impressed by the weapons these Americans wielded. Such arms would be formidable for any kingdom to own, let alone these up-jumped smallfolk. But he could not let his curiosity get the better of him. While he was confident that these people did not mean to attack them now, he could not guarantee their intentions for the future. A dialogue had just been opened between their nation and his, and where that went still remained to be seen.

His thoughts stirred and stewed, as he sat in his rooms at Lord Grafton’s manse. It was as he was contemplating the weapons demonstration that one of his messengers entered with news. A raven from King’s Landing had just arrived with a simple message from Aerys.

> **_You may bring these foreigners to the capitol._ **
> 
> **_\- King Aerys II_ **

* * *

Whispers and rumors seemed to be the life blood of the citizens of Lannisport.

As they went about their daily routine, her ears amongst the townsfolk had picked up more fanciful tales about the arrival of the men in blue. By now she was sure that the stories had spread throughout the kingdoms. Joanna was curious but elected not to believe anything until she received confirmation from King’s Landing. It had been a month and a half since she had received the letter from Rhaella, and still received no news on the goings on in the capitol.

In addition, according to Maester Creylen, the baby would be arriving quite soon. The predicted date of birth was within two weeks, but that was barring any unexpected surprises.

For now, she was healthy.

Looking back at the message on her desk, her heart seemed ready to burst just recalling yesterday’s events.

_“My lady.” A voice from her door called, waking her up from her midday nap._

_Suppressing an angered groan, she called out. “Enter.”_

_One of Maester Creylen’s assistants, Darran – or so she assumed – walked in with a nervous expression. “M-my lady, a raven has just arrived from King’s Landing.” He stuck out his hand and gave her the message. “Lord Tywin is currently on his way back to Casterly Rock.”_

_The assistant’s words expelled any ounce of weariness, as she took the message._

_“Are you sure?” She asked, as she started to read her husband’s words._

> **_Jo,_ **
> 
> **_Have received leave from the king. As we speak, I am riding back to you. I promise you, I will be there for the birth of our child._ **
> 
> **_Yours forevermore,_ **
> 
> **_Tywin_ **

_“I’m sure my lady.” The assistant answered. “A raven from the capitol to the Rock takes four days to fly, so that means Lord Tywin should be here by nightfall or tomorrow morn at the latest.”_

_Joanna looked up at the assistant, only no older than ten-and-seven by her estimations. So young, and so eager to please. With a calming breath, and a composed expression not betraying the steel nerve she so keenly possessed, she addressed the boy, “Thank you for service… Darran?”_

_“Yes, my lady.”_

_“Tell me, how long have you been apprenticing for Creylen?”_

_“Nearly four years, my lady.”_

_She hummed in approval as she considered for a moment._

_“You are dismissed.” She waived him away before calling out once more. “And tell Maester Creylen that I should like to meet him tonight. I would like to discuss with him your enrollment to the Citadel.”_

_She did not miss the shocked look nor the bright, wide-eyed smile that formed on the young man’s face._

_“Y-Yes, my lady.”_

_Looking down once more at the message in her hand, she felt as if a great weight had been released from her shoulders. Ever since the start of her pregnancy, she had worried that Tywin would not be there to share in the joy of their newborn child. But here, in her hands, lay tangible proof that she would not go through such a pain alone._

Joanna’s heart raced as the memory faded, and immediately she felt foolish for behaving like such a blushing maiden. But she was not a maiden, she reminded herself. She was woman grown, with a new babe waiting to be born.

As she turned back to the work that was spread out before hershe had more appreciation for the patience her husband had in running the household. By no means did she consider herself as imposing on her servants and bannermen, but she could not help but decry the inefficiency and laziness displayed by some of them.

If she were her husband, all she need do was display an irate expression and a slight growl, and they would have fulfilled her orders without question. The fact that she was a woman – and a pregnant one, at that – meant that she had to exert a sterner front, make more explicit threats, and give more detailed orders.

Maester Creylen had cautioned her not to exert herself too much during the later stages of her pregnancy and had cautioned her against walking too much in the weeks leading up to her birth. Initially she had refused, claiming that she was strong enough to use her own two legs, just fine. But with the continued protests of some of her ladies-in-waiting, had pestered her sufficiently into compromising. And so, she had consented to letting her other family members carry forth the strict discipline of her family name. Cousin Kevan always managed to toe the line between honeyed praises and whispered threats, and Cousin Genna’s boisterous attitude always found a way to endear the other lords.

It was a point of contention for her, though. She could hear the whispers of some of the visiting ladies or petulant knights who would dare to think her ire no less than the ‘ill humors of a woman with child’.

Her only grasp to sanity was the words her husband had spoken to her before she left the keep.

_“Do not worry, my dear. Be strong. And remember, a lion need not concern itself with the opinions of the sheep.”_

Joanna had taken his words to heart.

As the cool ocean breezes of the Sunset Sea blew through her room, she felt a sense of accomplishment for what she had done. She had overseen her family’s ancestral keep through the winter, and she had proven herself as a Lady of the Rock. A swell of pride rushed over her, a small smile gracing her features.

Her mind returning to her work, she rifled through the myriad papers and ledgers on her desk. She had finally received the tariffs on House Pipers’ monthly income, and she noted with interest how short some of their returns had decreased over the last three months.

Ringing a bell on her desk, a servant entered the room. “Send for Maester Creylen and tell him to bring the tariff ledgers over the six months for Pinkmaide – ”

A strange pain in her lower half stopped her mid-sentence as she placed one hand on her stomach and the other clutching the desk.

“My lady, are you alright?”

A part of her wanted to scream. _For gods’ sake man, do I look alright?!_

What came out of her mouth instead was a rough, “Aaggghhhh!”

Her cry of pain seemed to be enough for the servant who promptly responded, “I’ll go fetch Maester Creylen!”

His footsteps echoed his urgent pace as he ran to fetch the Maester. _Fucking took him long enough!_

Soon, Maester Creylen, his assistant Darran, and two midwives Becca and Olive entered her solar. A few diagnostic questions from Creylen was all it took to confirm what she knew deep down: her baby was coming. Bidding her to her room to prepare for the birthing, she was greeted with a flurry of commotion as the midwives began prepping the room, whilst the maester ordered her ladies to remove the dress she was wearing and leave only her smallclothes as he and his assistant washed their hands.

As she sat on the feather bed, her eyes tearing up at the pain, she could not help but be surprised that she was not as scared as she thought she would be. Maester Creylen had talked to her what to expect during a pregnancy, and fleeting images from her youth of her mother giving birth to bumbling Steffon dotted her mind.

She would not be afraid.

The pain was excruciating, each contraction inducing a sensation that felt like she was ripping apart only to be assembled again. Her ladies, at this stage, had decided to wait outside for propriety’s sake whilst the midwives were busy aiding Maester Creylen in ensuring her health and progress.

“Aaaggghhh! Gods above! Fuck!”

Another contraction wracked through her, bringing only more pain.

_Gods, this agony!_

Her breaths slowly started becoming more measured. Maester Creylen would check on her dilation after every contraction, with the aid of one of the midwives.

After each contraction, she would cry out in pain, “Now?!”

And every time they would reply, “Not yet!”

The whole agonizing process would start over from there, the only difference being her screams would increase in her volume and her profanity more extreme.

“Aaggghhhh!” She screamed.

“You’re doing very well, my lady!” The midwife would say.

“Fucking Others fucking take me!” She cursed.

“Progressing very well.” Maester Creylen would reassure.

“FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! I WANT THIS FUCKING THING OUT!” She howled.

“Not yet, my lady!” They would both answer with panicked voices.

“AAAGGGGGHHHHHH!!!!!!”

Joanna would have considered the whole thing comical, from the midwives tending to her health, to the maester with his finger in the most intimate part of her sex, to the blushing assistant Darran aiding in the process as he looked on in horror. But the shock waves of pain that wracked her body made it hard to laugh at the situation.

The late afternoon sun soon gave way to the darkness of night. Darran had lit several candles in the room, which had the side effect of making it unbearably hot for her. The contractions by now had become more intense and more frequent.

_How much longer?!_

“You’re almost there, my lady.” Maester Creylen answered, as he and one of the midwives were now both measuring the dilation of her womb with their fingers.

“AAGGHHH! My husband! Where is my husband?!”

“He’s not here yet, my lady. But I’m sure he’ll – ”

“Now! I need him here, now!” She couldn’t tell if the wetness she felt on her face was tears or sweat. Despite the pain, Joanna was not afraid, but that still did not stop her from crying out for her husband.

_Where are you Tywin? I need you here. Please, for our child… for me._

“Darran, go and ask if Lord Tywin’s party has been spotted yet!”

“Yes, Maester.”

But before the assistant could leave, the door burst open. In a moment that, to her eyes, seemed almost like a blessing from the Maiden, Tywin Lannister entered the room. Still clad in his mahogany riding leathers, she could still see the dust of the road caked on the sweat of his brow.

“Tywi – agghhhh!” Another contraction.

“Jo!” He rushed forward but was stopped by Midwife Olive.

“My lord!” She addressed him curtly. “You must clean yourself before you go near your wife.”

Not wasting another moment, he went to the pitcher of water and washed himself clean from the dirt and grime of the Goldroad. Having patted himself dry, he approached Joanna and took hold of her hand.

“Tywin.” She gave out a labored breath. “You’re here.”

“I did promise you, didn’t I?” His usual sternness failing to match his tender words. “You’re doing very well, my love.”

“It… it hurts…” She cried, her vicelike grip drawing blood from her husband’s hand.

“I know my love, but you must be strong.” Her husband’s pitiful attempts at reassurance only added to her frustration. “Maester, for heavens’ sake, is she ready?”

Calmly ignoring the unspoken threat in their liege lord’s question, Maester Creylen and Midwife Becca took another measurement. She saw their eyes widen, as they responded. “Four inches! Now’s the time, my lady!”

_Finally!_

“Push!”

Joanna took a few calming breaths before giving out a great shout.

“Very good, my lady.” Midwife Becca called out.

She noted the worry behind her husband’s gaze as she took another deep breath and gave out another yell.

“I can see the head!” Maester Creylen shouted.

Joanna felt as if her howls could be heard as far north as the Wall and as far east as Yi-Ti.

_By the Gods, Old and New!_

“Take another breath, and push!”

“Push!”

Joanna howled out once more in agony. Her legs were shaking, and her core felt as if it was being torn in two.

“That’s the shoulders. Very good, my lady.”

“One more push ought to do it.”

“Almost there, my love. One more push.”

_Oh, Tywin. I love you, but this is one battlefield where you are fucking useless!_

Taking another breath, she steeled herself for one final effort.

“And push!”

“It’s coming!”

“Almost there!”

The voice of everyone else in the room, seem to blur into one. She could only hear Tywin’s voice from that point on, offering words of assuredness and comfort. A cry echoes in the room, but not her own. The wails of her child mix together with hers as she pushes, and breathes, and pushes again until…

“Oh, milady!” Becca cheered. “Congratulations!”

“My lord, my lady, you have a son.” Maester Creylen announced, a small bloody shape in his hands.

Tywin looked at her with glee in his eyes. Joanna melted under his gaze, relief and exhaustion mixing in with her love.

_A son! A young cub for my Tywin!_

But her thoughts were interrupted as another wave of pain coursed through her. Another agonizing howl bellowed out of her.

“My lady, it appears you will have to push again.” Maester Creylen announced, having passed the newborn child off to one of the other midwives.

“Again?!”

“Yes, my lady!” He shouted back. “For the other child!”

Looking up in shock at Tywin, she remained at a loss for words. Her husband seemed to be of a similar disposition, as his mouth was now agape, his worry now returning in full measure.

_Another child?_

With one last breath, she screamed out in pain as she pushed once more.

* * *

Tywin could not help but smile fondly as he stared at his wife feeding their newborn daughter. In his hands, he carried his son. _Their_ son. A son _and_ a daughter. Two young lions to grace the noble Lannister family. A sense of pride coursed through his veins as he held the babe.

Initially he and Joanna were indecisive as to what to name their child. During one of his many visits to the Rock after the news of her pregnancy was announced, she had asked him what they should name their child. After much back and forth debate, they had settled on Jaime for a boy, and Cersei if a girl.

The gods must have been feeling generous that day, as he was granted with twins. A small part of him, upon the realization that another child was coming after the first had been born, wished that it were another son. After all, two stout and golden Lannister cubs to spread the family’s power and influence would have certainly been more beneficial to the family.

But upon seeing his wife’s doting smile as she held little Cersei, he regretted ever having those thoughts.

_Our children are here, Joanna is happy and alive. That’s all that matters._

“He has your eyes.” Joanna smirked at him, as he turned to look down at their son. “And your severe gaze.”

He could see that his son was silent, not making too much of a fuss, and his face retaining an intimidating look – or at least, as intimidating a newborn babe could muster.

“I should hope so.” He answered. “He will be Lord of the Rock one day, and Warden of the West.”

“Tywin,” She softly complained, “do you have to talk about politics now? I only just gave birth last night.”

“It’s not politics that I speak of.” He replied, softly. “It’s family.”

“When have those two things ever differed for you, Tywin?”

Tywin looked up at her, brow crooked, and ready to counter her point. But he quickly realized that she was right. Ever since he had become a man grown, he had held his family and their position in the world in the same regard. He cared about House Lannister, and he cared about House Lannister’s power in equal measure. It had always been that way, and he was sure it always would be.

“Oh, stop pouting.” She commanded, just as she had finished feeding their daughter. “This is a time for joy, not your grim consternations nor your political ambitions.”

Obeying his wife’s command, he nodded. Leaning forward he pressed a soft and grateful kiss to her lips. Grateful to the gods that she was alive, and to her for bringing their children to this world.

A knock on the door disrupted the intimacy of the moment, much to his wife’s displeasure.

“Enter.”

A servant entered the room, huffing and out of breath. “My lord… a- a raven from King’s Landing.” He extended his hand with a message in hand.

Passing the babe to one of the midwives, he took the message, waiving he servant off. Opening the letter, he immediately recognized the scribbled penmanship of Grand Maester Pycelle. As he read through it, he became more and more disconcerted.

“Tywin, what is it?” Joanna asked softly, her concern evident.

He did not answer her question, as he continued to read the last lines of the letter that Pycelle had sent.

_This is most disturbing, but whether or not this spells trouble for us, I cannot say for certain._

“Tywin?”

He turned to his wife and gave a soft reassuring smile. “Joanna, it would appear that our guests at the capitol had to leave early.”

“Is that all?”

“To be honest, I cannot say for certain.” He sighed, as he stepped forward and handed her the letter. “But I’m sure that the king isn’t pleased.”

> **_Most gracious Lord Tywin,_ **
> 
> **_After your departure, a messenger from the North had arrived for the Americans. It is unsure exactly what has occurred, but my sources tell me that a rebellion has broken out in their realm. The Americans are in turmoil and have petitioned the king to take their leave. The king is furious at this turn of events but has permitted them to return to their world. I shall write further should I come into possession of any news._ **
> 
> **_Your servant,_ **
> 
> **_P_ **

_So, the barbaric upstarts have fallen into civil war…_

_It appears I was right after all._

* * *

_“There are but two parties now: traitors and patriots.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do hope I did the Old Lion justice in this chapter. And Joanna Lannister is absolutely one of my favorites to write.
> 
> Next up, the Iron Islands...


	5. THE KRAKEN

**The Iron Islands – 266 A.C. / 1861 A.D.**

* * *

The sound of waves crashing against the rocky shores of Pyke always brought a sense of comfort to Quellon Geyjoy’s ears.

“My lord.” His sworn sword entered his cabin. “We are about to enter port.”

“Very well, Harryn.” He dismissed the man, splashing water on his face.

After his sworn sword had left, he put on his doublet and coat. The last ounces of sleep had left his eyes as he stepped out on the deck of his ship. He spotted his nervous guest, dressed in plain, gray robes with a line of chains around his neck.

“So, Qalen,” He addressed the man, “what do you think of Pyke?”

Turning around, the maester, Rolston, smiled politely. “A formidable fortress, Lord Greyjoy. One that surely rivals the Lannisters’ Casterly Rock.”

“I can assure you maester, those Greenlander Lions’ special rock is nothing more than a little pebble compared to our fortress.”

“I’m sure, my lord.” The maester conceded.

Maester Qalen was a strange one. When the Citadel had granted his request for a maester to be sent to Pyke, he was astonished that they had heard his request at all. But when he docked at Oldtown, he was surprised by Rolston’s presence, He had a quiet eagerness about him, that he could tell his men looked down upon. But what struck him as odd was that apparently Rolston had requested the appointment.

Rolston’s presence was just the first step to his larger plans of reforming the Iron Islands.

His people, since the days of the Conquest, had to content themselves with what little the Iron Islands had provided. It was a harsh land and that meant that his people had been harsh in return. They were practitioners of the Old Way, and that meant no farming, no smithing, none of those Greenlander trades. As Ironborn, their way of life meant paying the Iron Price. Raiding, reaving, and pillaging, these were the ways his ancestors had lived.

But he knew that such ways were outdated, impractical. It was a harsh truth to realize, but it was one that he needed to acknowledge. His people would not survive if they clung to the ways of their ancestors. As it was, they were barely living, clinging to the stony shores of their scattered western islands.

Quellon did not want his people to content themselves to exist, but he wanted them to live, to thrive, and to do so in a way that did not alienate themselves to the Greenlanders.

The war in the Stepstones had opened his eyes to the potential his people could achieve.

Commanding one hundred longships, he had reached an agreement with several of the Dornish lords on the Southern Coast to ferry their soldiers to the Stepstones to aid in the campaign. Talking to the various Dornish nobles, he was inspired by how adeptly they had managed in supporting their people despite the harsh climes they lived in. And as his ships collided with those of the Band of Nine, he had saw how well organized the Ironborn fleet was when it was placed under his strict military organization.

Most notable of all, though, was the attitude of his people when he had outlawed the usage of the Iron Price when his host had aided in the subduing of Bloodstone.

His captains had raised some protest when he informed them that there would be no capturing thralls, no reaving, no kidnapping of salt wives, and that they would let the Greenlanders deliver their punishment onto the Blackfyre host. Despite the disgruntled murmurs that he had heard from some of the men, they had listened to his orders. And in recognition of their valor, King Jaehaerys II saw it fit to reward them with a more than generous share of the plunder.

If his people’s barbarous urges could be tempered as such, perhaps the opportunity for change was within reach.

As they entered port, he saw the long three-pronged shadow of his ancestral home loom over all that stood underneath. Pyke was a formidable fortress, an ugly triad of rocky outcroppings jutting out of the ocean all connected by a series of bridges. Since there were no points of safe landing anywhere near Pyke, visitors to the keep had to harbor in nearby Lordsport.

As he walked down the gangplank, he was greeted by his eldest son Harlon and Dagmer Cleftjaw, his Master-at-Arms.

“My lord father.” His son bowed, showing all the courtesies and honors that his mother had taught him.

“Rise, my boy.” Quellon replied. _The lad grows larger every day._

“Lord Quellon.” Dagmer greeted, with a small smile. His master-at-arms was an old friend of the family, and they had both served together in the Stepstones. A man as good with his axe as he was with his ship.

“Dagmer.” He answered in kind. “I hope nothing untoward has happened whilst I was away.”

“No, my lord. At least, nothing that this little bugger can’t explain himself.” He ruffled Harlon’s hair, much to his son’s protest.

“I see.” He laughed. “Well, we can doll out punishments another time. For now, I must see to my new guest.”

From behind him, Maester Qalen appeared somewhat bored with the whole proceedings. His chains clinking as he walked down the gangplank, he was greeted with a small grimace from Damger.

“So, this is the gray rat we’re meant to host?” He gave the maester a once over. “Are you sure he’s a learned man Quellon? He looks like one of my oarsmen after a long night at the tavern.”

The maester remained silent, his impassive face betraying no signs of offense or affronted anger.

“Huh,” Dagmer shifted haughtily, hiding his discomfort. “You’ve certainly gotten a live one, eh Quellon?”

“If you’re worried that he’s slow, I can assure you, you’ll not find a man as quick of wit as he.” Quellon answered. “Now come on, it’s been far too long since I’ve seen home.”

The trek up to Pyke was a welcome reprieve from the long voyage. Whilst a life at sea was one that all ironborn are attested to, it’s ravages on one’s legs were a known affliction. He appreciated the chance to walk unabated, after spending so long in his cabin.

The landscape was no different from when he left. Sparse grassland and stony shores were all that his people had known since the Conqueror had all but banished them to this land. It left little opportunity for the peasants in the way of farming. Thus, his people had to resort to other trades to get what they lacked, even if it meant pursuing a less than peaceful lifestyle.

As they walked up the path to the main castle of Pyke, he could hear the chatter behind him as Harlon was eagerly testing the maester’s pool of knowledge and – he assumed – his patience. The occasional burst of laughter from Dagmer behind him, told him all he needed to know in regards to Rolston’s response.

_He’s sure to test the patience of the other lords._

Soon they reached the outer wall, the gates opening with imperious regard, as the men on duty greeted his return. Crossing the first bridge, he could not help but laugh at the maester’s face. Whether it was sheer awe at the size of the ancient keep, or his apprehension at being the first maester to set foot inside, he could not tell. But Quellon knew that he had at least managed to earn some respect from the grey rat over what he was endeavoring to do.

As the gates of the Great Keep opened in front of him, the party was greeted to the sight of his wife and children. Lady Asha Sunderly looked as worn as to be expected from a woman raising five boys. Quenton, Donnel, and Balon seemed as lithe and energetic as ever, whilst the babe Euron was peacefully resting in his mother’s arms.

“Quellon,” She smiled softly to him.

“My lady,” He greeted in kind.

The Lady of Pyke was a soft-spoken woman. So much so, that one would be surprised to discover that she was ironborn. She had a prodigious nature and was never boastful, but her will was stronger than that of any of her forebearers and her inclination toward her family’s prosperity was one that people often underestimated.

“Is this our new guest, husband?” She asked, looking toward the maester.

“Indeed, my lady.” He answered. “This is Maester Qalen from the Citadel. Say hello, boys.”

Each said their greeting with the usual bashful nature of young children to a stranger.

“Now boys, Maester Qalen will be in charge of your lessons now, alright?”

“Yes, father.” They responded in unison.

“Good, now I’ll see that the maester gets settled, and tonight we can have a feast.”

At the way all four of the young boy’s faces lit up, Dagmer released another haughty laugh. Even the sunny expression that young Euron had was enough to make his heart warm against the cold sea winds of the Sunset Sea.

“Now, you boys can go back with Dagmer for training.” His sons nodded and went of with the master-of-arms, before turning to his wife. “Asha, I’ll speak to you after I get Qalen settled in.”

“As you say, my love.” She answered plainly before setting off with Euron in her arms.

Turning back to Qalen, he gestured him to follow. “I”ll show you to your quarters.”

Followed by a retinue of servants carrying trunks of books, the two navigated through the halls of Pyke, crossing one of the bridges connecting the keep, until they arrived at the door of the newly converted maester’s tower.

Opening the door, he watched in silence as Qalen looked around the space. With a single nod, he answered, “This’ll do fine, my lord.”

“Very well.” He replied, ordering the servants to place the maester’s items down in the room.

“Now then, my lord,” Qalen started, “what is so important that you wish to speak to me alone?”

Quellon figured he should be surprised that the maester knew, but then the man was educated at the Citadel, and it wasn’t as if he had been subtle to his wife.

“I wanted to talk about my plans for the Iron Islands.”

“Ah, yes.” The maester nodded, half-remembering what his superiors back in Oldtown had told him of the ironborn lord. “Your planned reformation.”

It was no secret to the maester that the Lord of Pyke desired to change the very fabric of ironborn culture. Before he left the citadel, he had asked Quellon if he could be informed of his intentions in reforming the Iron Islands. Sufficed to say, while he appeared to agree with some of his plans, he appeared just as apprehensive.

“Yes, I need to know if it’s practicable.”

“Practicable?” The maester inquired. “In the economic sense or the human sense?”

“Ideally both, but I’ll settle for human if nothing else.”

The maester furrowed his brow, lost in thought, as he seemed to be playing out in his head the likeliness of both outcomes. He knew what he wanted was no small feat. To reform a way of life that had been custom to their people for the better part of five thousand years was not going to be accepted without conflict.

“I can say with some certainty that your planned reforms would bring a great deal of coin to the Isles. Whether or not that will be enough for your people to abandon their reaving lifestyle, I cannot say.”

It was a fair answer. After all, Qalen was only a maester from the Citadel. He did not know the thrill of sailing upon a longship to distant lands, nor the excitement of plundering the treasure of his enemies, nor the ecstasy that came with claiming a salt wife from the Greenlanders and their kingdoms.

His people knew, just as Quellon knew that it would take more than riches to get them to abandon the words of their Drowned God.

“My lord, if I may ask,” The maester started, “how exactly do you propose to implement these reforms of yours?”

“I plan to start here on Pyke, then gradually incorporate the rest of the isles into the reforms.”

“What do you expect to do if you encounter resistance?”

“If there are those who would oppose me, they will suffer the consequences.” He answered, his voice level and rough. “I am still the Lord Reaper of Pyke, and I would sooner plant the heads of any dissenters on spikes before they dare to challenge my will.”

“I can see there’s still much of the Old Way left in you, my lord.” Qalen snorted.

“My people… my people need to understand that this devotion to the Old Way is what’s keeping us from thriving.” He started, taking a breath. “We snort at the Greenlanders and mock them for being soft for their plentiful harvests and long summers, whilst we remain hardy against tempests and rocky isles. But the truth is that it is _our_ way of life that prevents us from thriving as they do.”

The maester remained silent for a minute before carefully responding.

“So, you think that full integration with the ‘Greenlanders’, would be the ideal solution?”

He sent the maester a curious look. Of course, fully incorporating the Iron Islands with the mainland would surely be the most obvious solution to reforming the ways of his people, right?

“You think that’s not the best course of action?”

“It’s not that I disagree with it, as much as I disagree with how you see it.” He explained. “You are of the opinion that by integrating Andal culture to the Iron Islands, your people will see the benefits of that way of life and therefore willfully shed their devotion to the Old Way.”

Quellon nodded as he listened, eager to learn what the maester had to say.

“The truth of the matter is, that both goals are independent of one another.” Qalen continued. “If you supplant Andal culture onto your people, they will either adopt to it by your command, accept it with great reluctance, or outright rebel against it and by extension you. What needs to happen before you start sending maesters to other lords and begin conducting trade deals with the mainland, is to end the violent nature that is inherent in your people’s way of life.”

“You mean I should end the practice of the Old Way?” Quellon inquired.

“My lord, if you want your people to thrive, as you say, this must be addressed first.”

Quellon nodded for a moment, musing on the young maester’s words. He knew that at some point, abolishing the practice of reaving and the Old Way would be necessary, but he had hoped that he could come to a point of compromise with the other lords over the practice. But now he was being confronted with a truth that he needed to hear, perhaps one that he knew all along but refused to accept.

Giving his thanks to Maester Qalen, Quellon bid his farewell to let him unpack his books and equipment.

_We’re going to need more books._

* * *

The initial hesitance of his bannermen to Qalen’s presence had managed to dwindle down after several moons. Hostility eventually gave way to reluctant acceptance, although Quellon noted that there were still suspicious eyes directed towards the maester’s way whenever they would set foot on Pyke. But the wave of hesitation subsided.

Soon, he was seeing the benefits of having a maester on the island. The organization of taxes on the smallfolk was improved drastically, and a new set of import tariffs onto the harbor at Lordsport brought a new source of income toward his house. And before long, those policies enacted on Pyke were swiftly implemented by the other Ironborn lords. But despite this slow yet steady increase of wealth, he knew that there would be another uproar once he announced the first step in his plan to integrate the Iron Islands with the rest of the kingdoms.

“Are you sure your people will be ready for this, my lord?” Qalen asked, as he read through the official proclamation with deserved hesitance.

“I do.” He confirmed. “While there may be another wave of discontent, I doubt it will grow into too much trouble.”

“As you say, my lord.” He accepted before handing the notice off to a town crier.

Quellon watched with hopeful zeal as he saw the crier ride off into town. Soon the news of this would spread to the other ironborn and they would, hopefully, not be too hasty in voicing their objections. Whether or not things would turn violent, remained to be seen.

> **_NOTICE FROM THE LORD REAVER OF PYKE_ **
> 
> _THIS DECREE COMES IN THE TWO-HUNDRED AND SIXTY-SEVENTH YEAR OF THE CONQUEST AS MANDATED BY LORD QUELLON GREYJOY, LORD REAVER OF PYKE AND THE IRON ISLANDS._
> 
> _EFFECTIVE IMMEDIATELY, ALL THRALLS CURRENTLY INHABITING THE ISLAND OF PYKE WILL BE GRANTED THEIR FREEDOM, AS WELL AS SAFE PASSAGE TO A HARBOR ON THE MAINLAND._
> 
> _THOSE WHO DESIRE TO STAY ON PYKE WILL BE GRANTED A PENSION, AS WELL AS LAND GRANTS FOR THOSE WHO DESIRE TO TAKE UP FARMING AS A TRADE._
> 
> _FURTHERMORE, THE PRACTICE OF THRALLING IS NOW OUTLAWED ON PYKE._
> 
> _ANY MAN WHO OPPOSES THIS LAW WILL BE SUBSEQUNTLY PUNISHED._
> 
> _SIGNED,_
> 
> **_LORD QUELLON GREYJOY, LORD REAVER OF PYKE AND THE IRON ISLANDS_ **

From what he gathered, the announcement of the new law was met with a mixed reception. Obviously, the thralls were ecstatic over the news of their emancipation, and there were several raiders who were, surprisingly, unbothered by the fact. There were however quite a few rich merchants and raiders who had voiced their anger toward the new law. But Quellon knew that their grumblings would remain as such lest they dare to tempt his ire.

Thankfully, despite the dissenting opinions of some, the emancipation was carried out with little trouble. Some arrests had to be made for a few who had resisted the new law, but the issue was swiftly dealt with.by the edge of his sword.

“Am I doing the right thing, Asha?” He asked his wife in bed one night, tired and worn from another bout of pleasure.

“Quellon. Ever since I’ve met you, I have known you to be nothing but kind and wise and respected in the eyes of the people.” She answered. “Your ancestors wished to pillage and reap havoc on the mainland, but you? You want us to be better than who we are now. How can that not be right?”

His wife’s words bled into his mind as he dwelled on the further changes to come. He knew that this was only the beginning. Soon he would be upending the only way of life that his people had known.

_How can that be right?_

After a moons turn, he had found that the few troubles that had emerged from his new law had mostly subsided. The people of Pyke were quick to accept the freed thralls that had stayed on the island, while those who desired to return home were sent to Lannisport and given some money for their journey home.

While he was unsure about spending as much as he had for the return of the emancipated thralls back to their homelands, he was assured by Qalen that Pyke’s coffers had swelled enough to allow him to be generous without pecuniary concern.

Around him, the deep gray hue of Pyke seemed to brighten slightly as he saw the improvement in his people’s state of being. The inhabitants of Lordsport had received a somewhat sunnier disposition. The flow of wealth and trade, had brought about a growing interest in establishing deals with the Greenlanders. But he knew that before any formal trade agreements could even be proposed, he had to implement his policies in full throughout the islands.

It was when Lord Harlaw began freeing thralls on his lands without Quellon’s prompting that he decided now was the time to implement his outlawing of the practice of thralldom onto his other bannermen.

Ravens began flying from the maester’s tower, carrying words to all the other ironborn lords that their way of life was no longer legal.

_Whether or not they listen is another matter altogether._

When after a week news came from Satlcliffe, Harlaw, and Orkmont that the lords of each island had complied with his new law and freed their thralls, he was relieved. Having married a Sunderly and declaring his support for the actions of Lord Harlaw, he had expected such loyalty would sway any hesitant bannermen. That still left Blacktyde and the two Wyks.

Blacktyde was hesitant to enforce the new law, but was swayed, supposedly, by the example of House Orkwood and Tawney. Despite the raven from Blacktyde Castle stating as such, he still sent Damger with a ship and a small party of men to ensure that his word had been made law.

Great Wyk and Old Wyk remained a complicated issue. Apparently, there were a few of his bannerman on the two Wyks who were eager to see his law put into effect but were worried about the possible resistance from those lords who were opposed to implementing it. Namely, Houses Sparr, Goodbrother, and Drumm.

Quellon knew that this was by no means a small act of rebellion. The houses of Great and Old Wyk were among the oldest of the ironborn houses and the most loyal to the Greyjoys. If they refused to enact his emancipation law, then the other houses might be inclined to think the same. With his authority undermined, it could lead to a war between his people.

_And war would be nothing short of ruinous._

As he sat in the Seastone Chair, he quietly debated to himself what he should do about the rebel lords of Wyk. He had ignored the soft sound of footsteps nearing him until they had ceased right in front of him.

“My love, a raven from Blacktyde Castle.” His wife handed him the scroll.

“News from Dagmer?”

“Yes,” She nodded. “He has managed to confirm Lord Ion’s claim. All of the thralls on Blacktyde have been freed.”

He read through the scroll carefully, his eye weary in spotting any potential tricks. It was in Dagmer’s handwriting, and he could tell by the wording it was his friend’s own and not that of another’s through Dagmer’s hand.

“Good… good.” He exhaled in relief, bringing his hand over his eyes. “That just leaves Great Wyk and Old Wyk.”

Asha nodded quietly, before she asked, “Quellon...”

He raised his gaze up to her.

“… Are you alright?”

He remained silent, regarding the concerned look on his wife’s face. Ever since his last wife’s death, he had not thought he could bring himself to open his heart to another, but Asha’s efforts were on the verge of proving him wrong.

“Please, my love. Tell me what ails you.”

“I’m worried that my actions may be steering my people toward ruin.” He admitted. It was the first time he ever aired out the thought.

“You believe you were wrong to outlaw thralldom?” She asked, her concern doting and dutiful.

“Aye.” He nodded at her question, pouring himself a cup of Arbor Gold. “But not just about freeing the thralls, but also how I went about doing it.”

He took a large sip before continuing. “Mayhaps I should’ve been less mandatory in the decree, or I should have done as Qalen suggested and compensated all the masters who had their thralls emancipated. Or maybe I shouldn’t have outlawed thralldom at all.”

He felt his wife’s palm cup his face, as he brought his downward gaze up to meet hers.

“Quellon.” She started in her firm voice. “Do I need to remind you that _you_ are the Lord of the Iron Islands. Not those petty hounds at the Wyks. _You._ ”

Quellon remained speechless at the sudden steel that his wife was bearing as she carried on.

“Do you remember last year the stories coming from King’s Landing about the Men in Blue Coats who entreated the Greenlander king?”

He nodded silently, confused as to where the conversation was leading.

“There is a rumor among the merchants’ wives that the reason they left in haste was because they were dealing with a rebellion in their own lands, one they desired to aid in suppressing thoroughly.” She recounted. “According to Qalen, the reason their country is in rebellion is because their king desired to outlaw slavery and has called upon all his lords to crush the rebellion by any means necessary.”

Quellon absorbed his wife’s words as he hesitantly stumbled onto her meaning. “You would have me threaten civil war?”

“You do not threaten civil war, my lord husband.” She huffed indignantly at his question. “It is _they_ who have done so. By disobeying your laws, by calling your strength into question, by threatening to take up arms against you! If war is declared, it is _they_ who have chosen to inaugurate it!”

A new kind of mettle had been unsheathed in his wife as she finished her case. He realized that she was right. He was the Lord of the Iron Islands, not them. If he desired to bring prosperity to his people at the cost of their traditions, then the Old Way be damned. His word was law and if the petty lords of Drumm and Goodbrother and whoever else desired to undermine his authority, then they would see the consequences that their impudence would bring.

They would all know the embrace of the Drowned God.

They would all feel the wrath of the kraken.

* * *

The seas were choppy as Quellon’s ship made port in Great Wyk. He had called on a meeting of the rebel lords, petitioning them to negotiate one last time for the sake of unity between the ironborn.

“My lord, are you sure this is wise?” Dagmer voiced his concern as they neared the harbor.

“Had I any the heart to lie to you, Dagmer, I would say yes. But today…” He stared briefly at the shore. “I might make an exception.”

Dagmer shook his head at his old friend’s words. He always had a way with words that most born on the Iron Islands lacked. Dagmer knew that Quellon’s wit was mostly taken from the books of other learned men, but that didn’t stop him from enjoying when he used it.

Stepping off the gangplank, he was greeted with the sight of thirty armed men under the oak saltire of House Sparr, as well as the Sparr himself.

“Lord Quellon.” He bowed in compliance. “I trust your voyage was well.”

“Aye, well enough.”

“Well then, perhaps we might retire to my keep so we may – ” He interrupted the man’s invitation.

“I’ll ask this but once: Will you follow the law and emancipate your thralls?”

‘My lord, I – ”

“Now.” His voice was harsh and demanding as he stared the Lord Sparr in the eye.

“No, my lord.” He had finally answered. “Not without sufficient compromise.”

Quellon raised an eyebrow, his temper beginning to boil over at the defiance being so openly displayed.

“Sufficient compromise?” He asked, his voice calm amidst the crashing waves. “Very well.”

In one swift movement, he drew out his knife and thrust it into Lord Sparr’s stomach. A river of blood pooled out of the rebellious lord as he stared in awe at the blade protruding through his belly. His eyes drifted upward meeting Quellon’s, his mouth moving speechlessly in fear.

The shuffling of men’s feet brought Quellon’s attention as he spotted the armed men rushing forward to aid their liege lord. A whistle from the deck of the Greyjoy ship alerted the men as they spotted nearly half a dozen appear with crossbows in hand. They cried out in pain before dropping as bolt after bolt shot forward through their shields and into their bodies.

Before long all but one guard was left alive. Quellon had his men subdue the survivor, bringing him forward to where Lord Sparr was now kneeling, blood pouring out of him.

“You.” He addressed the survivor. “Return to the keep, and tell the other lords threatening rebellion what happened here, and what will happen to all those who dare to undermine me.”

The sound of a war horn seemed to punctuate his point, as all those on the dock could see on the distance the arrival of hundreds of longships, each bearing their sigils, but all flying under the banner of the yellow kraken

Drawing out his sword, he stepped back and leveled it upon the neck of Lord Sparr. Staring up in shock from the betrayal and the arrival of the Greyjoy host, his shook his head in fear at the sight of the blade. A large piss stain seemed to punctuate the man’s fear as Quellon gave him his last judgement.

“For the crimes of treason and continued practice of thralldom, I, Quellon Greyjoy, Lord Reaper of Pyke and Lord of the Iron Isles, sentence you to die.”

His swing was good, and his blade true and with his screams dying on his breath, the Sparr’s head rolled carelessly onto the dock.

The surviving guard’s fear was palpable as Quellon stared into his eyes. Reaching down, he grabbed Lord Sparr’s head and placed it in the guard’s hand.

“You may go.”

Nodding furiously, the guard shook with each step as he was brought up to stand and sent on his way to return to the other rebel lords.

They all surrendered that day, each cursing themselves for thinking that Quellon Greyjoy was weak for behaving like one of the gray rats. Since the Lord Sparr had not yet offered bread and salt before he was beheaded, the other rebel lords dared not to claim a violation of guest right. The next few weeks were spent on Great Wyk, ensuring the fealty of the other lords whilst Quellon personally oversaw the emancipation of the last thralls on Great and Old Wyk.

After nearly two months away, Quellon Greyjoy left Great Wyk making sure to leave behind a suitable retinue of overseers and men-at-arms to ensure that his rule of emancipation would not be overturned.

The cheers of his men were punctuated as they set sail from Great Wyk.

“Quellon!”

“Quellon!”

“Quellon!”

With a satisfied smile, he looked off to the horizon as he contemplated his plans for the ironborn’s future.

_Drowned God, be damned._

_It is the might of the kraken that should be feared._

* * *

_\- As He died to make men holy, let us die to make men free, while God is marching on! -_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Procrastination almost delayed this chapter, but the idea of having Quellon's struggle to integrate the Iron Islands paralleling the growing campaign for the emancipation of slaves that would eventually lead to the American Civil War to be a thoroughly interesting concept to write.
> 
> I might add more to this chapter in the future once I've finished the whole fic. I have some ideas that I'd like to expand on in future additions to this series.
> 
> Next up, the Riverlands...


	6. THE TROUT

**The Riverlands – 267 A.C. / 1862 A.D.**

* * *

The rushing waters of the Tumblestone felt cool against her bare ankles as she took in the woodlands around her.

It had been nearly three moons passed since Minisa Tully had fought her battle on the birthing bed. The sight of her babe, a daughter she had christened Lysa, was worth the hours of agony and pain. She had given her lord husband two healthy children, but she knew that her duty was not yet done. Her two children, Catelyn and Lysa, were daughters. And until she had given birth to a son, her duty would be incomplete.

House Tully needed an heir, and despite the love she held in her heart for her two daughters, she knew that that love was not guaranteed to them by the world. A son. A son was needed to keep House Tully’s legacy secure. A son, a brother who would serve as guardian to her two daughters.

She nearly scoffed at the notion.

While she knew that any son she may have would grow to be noble and honorable, and would be raised to fight to the death if needs be for the protection of his sisters, she knew it to be just as wrong.

It was the duty of the eldest to protect the youngest, whether or not they were born with a cock. If anything, it ought to be her daughters who would grow to protect their younger brother.

_Maiden above, I’m getting ahead of myself._

The sweet song of the bluebirds was enough to bring her back to the world around her. It had been far too long since she managed to enjoy the countryside. Her only ire was that she could not do it alone as she used to as a child.

“My lady! It’s nearly midday, and Lord Hoster will be concerned if you’re absent for luncheon!” One of her handmaidens called out to her.

“My husband loves me enough to wait should I be late for luncheon!” She called back.

“But, my lady – ”

“Oh, alright!” She called back, rolling her eyes at her handmaidens’ hysterics. “If only for the sake of your peace of mind, Emyly.”

“It’s not just my peace of mind, I’m worried about.” Her voice shook as she looked around her warily. “There could be thieves and brigands in these woods.”

“There aren’t any brigands in _these_ woods.” She reassured her handmaiden as she put her boots back on. “Besides, even if there were, I think we should be more than safe from their kind.”

Minisa dried her legs and put her riding boots back on before she climbed onto her saddle and rode up alongside Emyly, with her personal guard of ten horsemen, each armed with lance and shield and clad in full mail armor, following closely behind. She knew her husband had something of a protective streak, so she wasn’t surprised when she insisted on her daily rides through the country that she be escorted always by a detachment of personal guards. When she conceded however, she expected to have two or maybe even four guards serve as escort. She did not expect ten of them.

_At least I need not doubt my husband’s devotion to my safety._

As they rode down the main path along the Tumblestone toward Riverrun, she could not help but feel amused thinking of how the smallfolk must have viewed their party. Twelve riders traversing the woods, bearing the standard of House Tully, all riding with vigor to the great keep that sat amidst the waters of the Red Fork. She imagined the smallfolk envisioning them as akin to the great host of Lady Agnes Blackwood during the Harwyn Hoare’s invasion of the Riverlands, despite her knowing that that probably wasn’t the case.

As they neared the castle, she was struck by the sight of manifold ravens coming and going from the maester’s tower, all in a westward direction.

_Something is happening…_

Crossing the lowered drawbridge, riding under the raised portcullis, and into the keep, she noted the nervous energy that seemed to permeate throughout everyone in the castle, from the captain of the guards to the lowest stablehand. Dismounting, she was approached by her husband, Lord Hoster Tully. With piercing blue eyes, light brown hair, and a broad form, he had been the epitome of every maiden’s fantasy.

“Minnie,” He greeted her with a kiss, “Did you have a nice ride?”

“It was lovely.” She responded. “I’ve never known the Tumblestone to glitter as it did under the midday sun.”

“Oh? I’ll have to join you the next time you go out riding.” He proffered, as they walked across the courtyard. “We can make a picnic of it.”

“Oh, that would be lovely Hoster.” She smiled brightly at her husband. “We can bring the girls and make a lovely day of it. Speaking of which, I have to check on them first.”

“Of course, of course.” He smiled fondly at her before she began walking in the direction of the nursery.

Greeting the milkmaid as she entered, she spied her eldest daughter, Catelyn, fast asleep in her little bed. Walking to the cot on the other side of the room, she looked down to see her littlest babe Lysa fussing slightly, her face lighting up as she caught sight of her mother.

“I already fed her, milday. But she couldn’t be put to nap.” The milkmaid said from where she stood.

“That’s because she wanted to see her mother before she could nap, didn’t you my sweetling.” Minisa smiled at her newborn before lifting her up from the cot and rocking her gently.

She carried on for a few more minutes until the babe let out a small yawn, much to Minisa’s amusement. She wondered faintly if the babe would take after her in the coloring of her hair, given that Catelyn’s wisps of red were already beginning to show. With little Lysa’s eyes finally closed, she placed the babe back down in the cot before thanking the milkmaid and walking back to her room to change out of her riding clothes.

Wearing a modest turquoise dress, Minisa began her walk down to the Great Hall. Upon entering, she noticed her husband had a series of messages lined around on one side of where he sat. He was perusing through them with the same tense energy that she had seen in the keep upon returning from her morning ride.

“My love, what did I say about bringing work to the dinner table?” She scolded in a playful tone.

“I know, dear, but this is important.” He answered, setting the papers aside as the servants arrived with their luncheon. “How are the girls?”

“They’re fine.” She replied. “I suspect that I may be Lysa’s favorite.”

“Oh? What makes you say that?”

“The milkmaid says that I’m the only one who can get her to nap.” She smiled coyly at her husband. “What do you say to that, my dear husband?”

“That, conversely, it could just as easily mean that you’re the only person capable of boring her to sleep.”

“Oh, so I’m boring now, am I?” She playfully teased, giving a light smack on his arm.

“Unendingly dull.” He shot back with a sly smile of his own. “After all, you still wouldn’t let me do that _thing_ you promised you’d let me do…”

“Gods, Hoster! Do we have to discuss this now?” She admonished him, a thick blush on her face. “The maester said that we are not to participate in such _activities_ until I am fully recovered from the birth.”

“You’re well enough to go riding!” He shot back with a grin, his hand sneaking its way to hers. “Surely you’re recovered enough?”

“Why are you so insistent on this?” She asked, her blush setting at the thought of what he wanted to do to her.

“Because I love you,” He answered as he looked in her eyes, his voice calm and assuring. “And I want you to feel just as good when we couple.”

Minisa shivered at what her husband was offering. Growing up in Harrenhal, she had always retained the lessons she was taught by her septa. Discipline, chastity, and devotion were the principles she held close to her heart until the gods saw fit to grant her a husband. And while she was not as devout as she had been in her youth, some of the more liberal activities her husband had suggested in the bedroom had managed to shock her. She wondered faintly if her husband’s experience in the Stepstones had cultivated this hidden desire for carnal pleasures.

“We will talk about this another time, after I have talked to the maester.” She insisted pointedly.

Hoster laughed softly, nodding to her. “Very well, Minnie. But don’t think I’m going to forget.”

Minisa merely rolled her eyes at her husband. She knew Hoster loved her just as she loved him, and that neither one would stray from the other. But why he had to bring up such lewd conversation while they were eating, and in front of the servants no less, was something beyond her comprehension.

The rest of their luncheon was filled with a comfortable silence and as they finished, she turned to her husband once more and inquired on the messages that were set aside on the table.

“They’re messages to the coastal lords, mainly Lord Mallister of Seagard.”

“Why are you sending messages to the coastal lords?”

A look of worry briefly flashed across her husband’s face, disappearing as quickly as it appeared. “There are… rumors, that the Ironborn are amassing ships.”

“How many ships?”

“Some say, nearly two hundred.”

Minisa was surprised. She knew that the Ironborn had a habit of raiding the towns and villages along the western coast, but never had she heard of such a force of them amassing since the last Blackfyre rebellion. “Surely, they don’t mean to attack us?”

Hoster sighed as he looked at her, concern in his eyes. “I don’t know for sure. All I can do at the moment is send alerts to the coastal lords and prepare for any surprises those bloody bastards may spring on us.”

Minisa nodded absently at her husband’s words. There wasn’t much they could do now other than wait and stand vigilant. But surely, they wouldn’t dare to strike at the mainland. Her lessons with the Maester Amyn when she was a child resurfaced in her mind. She had learned that her family’s seat had been built by an Ironborn king, Harren the Black. But Aegon the Conqueror and his dragons had seen to the Ironborn’s destruction and exile back to the Iron Islands.

Quellon Greyjoy was the Lord of Pyke and was, by all the stories told of him, unlike most of the Ironborn. Apperntly he had a penchant for reading and rumors held that he had brought a maester to Pyke. Quellon the Wise, he was called by some of the smallfolk. A man like that wouldn’t dare to run the risk of invading the Riverlands.

_If another Ironborn invasion were to happen, surely the king would send aid…_

Her thoughts were broken by her husband’s hands on hers. “It’s alright, Minnie. We don’t even know if they plan to strike us. They could just as easily b readying to attack the Westerlands or the North. Everything that can be done, is already being done. And I promise that whatever happens, I will keep you and the children safe.”

Minisa smiled and placed a quick kiss on her husband’s cheek. As he left to continue his duties for the day, she tried to push the news of the Ironborn out of her mind. While she loved Hoster and trusted him, she couldn’t help but feel like this was just a small part of all the odd goings on that had started since the end of last winter.

When news came from King’s Landing that a foreign delegation hailing from a strange isle that had appeared up in the waters up North was arriving to meet with the king, she didn’t know what to think. The stories coming from King’s Landing told of how the foreigners had caused quite a stir when they arrived in three large black ships, all as black as the Blackwater Bay, without sails.

The stories spoke of odd men dressed entirely in blue, strange explosions being heard in the training grounds of the Red Keep, and of the king’s endearing attitude toward the mysterious foreigners.

And just as mysteriously they had appeared, they had left suddenly with little warning. According to Emyly, she heard from her cousin who was one of the Queen’s handmaidens that apparently a rebellion had erupted in their homeland and they needed as many available ships to aid in suppressing it.

Whatever the reason, the foreigners had left and no news of them had appeared since. Minisa, while not as religious as she was once, wondered if all these events were a sign from the gods. _But a sign of what? Their pleasure or their discontent?_

She sighed as she down in her solar with her handmaidens and continued working on her stitching for little Lysa.

* * *

In the years since the end of the last Blackfyre rebellion, Hoster Tully had never fully envisioned himself taking his father’s seat as Lord Paramount.

He had always been something of a wayward spirit. While he wasn’t one to disavow his house’s words of _Family, Duty, Honor_ , he always found it difficult to affect the same energy and guile he had for travel to those lofty concepts that were emblazoned in the minds of every Tully heir. His love of travel, more than anything else, was the main reason he had answered the Iron Throne’s call to aid in subduing the traitor Maelys Blackfyre.

But when his father died, the realities of being the Heir to Riverrun came crashing down on him. He had thought, initially, that he would buckle under the weight of responsibility that came with being the Lord Paramount of the Trident. But it wasn’t until his wife had told him that she was pregnant that he found the strength to shoulder that burden.

By all regards, he considered Minisa Whent to be more than he could have ever deserved. With bright red hair and high cheekbones, he was overwhelmed by how quickly she had captured his heart. As a daughter of House Whent, she had proven to be well adept at running a large household being more than familiar with the stresses that came with such a task. Her beauty, as far as he was concerned, was outmatched by any in the realm. And such beauty, he held to himself, should be treated with devotion just second to the Seven.

So, when he wed Minisa Whent, now Minisa Tully, he vowed unto himself to treat her as if she were the Maiden incarnate. He had never taken a lover before her and would take no other after her. Hoster’s heart lay solely in Minisa’s hands and whether or not she returned such devotion, he swore that he would love her all the same.

And by the mercy of the gods, she returned such devotion.

He enjoyed watching her squirm and moan in pleasure underneath him, as he continued his movements with his fingers and tongue. He had heard of such carnal delights during his travels but having never taken a lover he did not know if such an act could truly please a woman.

By his wife’s affronted tone of voice when he first brought up his desire to try the act, he half-considered reneging his offer entirely. She eventually accepted, much to his surprise, but she acted as if she would not enjoy it.

“Oh… gods…” She shivered as he lapped at her folds. “H- Hoster…”

He smiled as he continued to delve his tongue into her, savoring her juices. When she eventually peaked with a drawn-out moan that turned into a silent cry, he gave out a heavy breath before kissing her on the lips.

He softly laughed to himself as they both lied down on the bed, their arms wrapped around each other and their legs tangled together.

“What’s so amusing.” She asked, her words leaning toward teasing rather than offended.

“Nothing, nothing.” He waived off, before succumbing to her disbelieving expression. “It’s just… I had thought that you wouldn’t enjoy this.”

Peering up at him curiously, she asked, “And why’s that?”

“It’s just that you were so hesitant to accept, and I didn’t want… I didn’t want to force you to do something like that if you didn’t want to.”

Smiling softly at his attempts to explain his insecurities, she brought her hand up and began to stroke his cheek softly. “Hoster, we’ve been wed for three years. I think you of all people should be able to tell by now when I approve or disapprove.”

She scooted closer to him, the tips of their noses touching lightly. “And of that, _I wholeheartedly approve._ ”

He smiled again before leaning closer to kiss her. _Another long night, I guess._

The following morning was filled with the hustle and bustle that came with life in the Riverlands. All the pleasure and ecstasy of the previous night seemed to be a distant memory as he worked through all the reports and managing and tariffs that flowed in and out of his office and into his personal records.

Sitting right in the middle of the Seven Kingdoms, his holdings sat on the intersection between the Neck, the Vale, the Westerlands, and the Crownlands. Trade was constant and with the added fact of being one of the most fertile regions in the realm, he found himself wrapped up in more paperwork than he had ever known in his life.

As frustrating as it could be sometimes, he found himself diligently working through the reports of his tax collectors with the same fervor he recalled his father having. He now understood how it felt to be in his father’s position, working ceaselessly through the night with facts and figures going through his head, fueled by the care and want of providing the very best for his family.

Having finished the daily reports, he walked with Maester Kym over to his solar to see what messages needed to be seen and to be sent.

“… Oh, yes. And a raven from the capital arrived just this morning.”

“News? What about?”

“Well, it would appear that the stories about the foreign delegation that had arrived earlier this year are substantiated.” The maester answered, as he sifted through the stack of messages. “According to this, they’ve returned.”

He was handed the message which still had its wax seal attached bearing the three-headed dragon of the royal family.

> **_To all the Great Houses of the Seven Kingdoms_ **
> 
> **_An official delegation from a kingdom known only as ‘The United States of America’ has arrived to establish official relations between our two realms. Given the strange circumstances that have led to their arrival, they are unfamiliar to our kingdom and have expressed a desire to meet with representatives from every corner of the kingdom. As such, I, King Aerys II, order each of the Lord Paramounts to send a trusted representative to the court so that these foreigners may meet the best the Seven Kingdoms has to offer and see our unity in full._ **
> 
> **_Signed,_ **
> 
> **_King Aerys Targaryen, Second of his Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm._ **

Looking back up to the maester with a befuddled look on his face, he asked, “What in the seven hells is this supposed to mean?”

“Well, my lord, dare I say, I think that the message is quite straightforward.” The maester answered.

“Straightforward? You expect me to believe this? That _anyone_ will believe this?”

The maester raised his hands slightly, “I know that this may be difficult to believe, my lord – ”

“ _Difficult?!_ ”

“ – but, this would give credence to the rumors surrounding the black ships that appeared in the capital the year prior.”

“Yes, those damned ships.” He growled out. “I have traveled to just about every port and city lining the Narrow Sea, and you should know just as well as I, that there is no such kingdom called ‘America’.”

“Unless perhaps they hail from the lands beyond the Bone Mountains.”

“If they were why, then, would they send an official envoy?” He asked. “Surely the goings on in Westeros are of little consequence to them?”

“You raise a fair point, my lord, but the fact still remains that a royal summons has been decreed.” He stressed pointedly, tapping at the message. “We must send representatives to the capitol.”

Hoster could do little but sigh. He knew that to disobey a royal decree would mean nothing short of death.

“Alright, say that everything that the king has declared is true. Who do we send?”

“Given the unpredictable nature of the situation,” The maester started, “it should be someone who is not only unwaveringly loyal, but skilled enough in both the art of negotiation and combat should events turn out to be less than favorable.”

Hoster scoffed slightly. While he wasn’t so paranoid as to think that all of his bannermen were despotic traitors, he would be hard pressed to find someone of quality who was imbued with all of the aforementioned traits. And even if there was someone amongst his bannermen who imbued such traits, they could just easily be among the coastal lords watching for an Ironborn attack.

_Unwavering loyalty with skills in negotiation and a matching ferocity in combat? Ha! I ask who should represent the Riverlands, and he would demand no less than Aemon the Dragonknight!_

_Unless…_

Opening the door, he turned to the closest guard on post. “You! Send for my brother.”

* * *

To say that Ser Brynden Tully found himself bewildered by the chain of events that led him here, would be nothing short of an understatement.

Given the falling out that he had with his brother regarding Lady Bethany Redwyne, he had not expected to be issued a charge so important as the one he had been given. Still, he supposed that it was damn good improvement over having to train coastal levies up near Seagard. When his brother summoned him that night to tell him that he would be going to the capital, he half feared instead that Hoster would send him off to aid in the Freys’ defense.

_The last thing I need is having to stave off that ol’bugger Walder and his daughters._

After nearly three days of hard riding, they finally arrived at the Trident. Usually, he would just cut across the country to Harrenhal, then south on the Kingsroad, but ever since the last Blackfyre pretender had been slain, the smaller roads throughout Riverrun were said to be infested by broken men. At his brother’s insistence, he and his half-score retinue had instead rode along the Red Fork until they reached the Trident, and from there down the Kingsroad to the capital.

Stopping at Harroway’s town, he and his men sought shelter for the night at the local inn.

“Milord.” A serving girl greeted him and his retinue with a small smile. “We have a room available should you need it.

“My men will be needing rooms as well.” He nodded toward the guards behind him.

“I’ll talk to the innkeeper.” She nodded. “Shall I get you a drink, milord?”

“Ale.” He answered before she walked off to the counter. Looking around the inn, he noticed that while there were a quite few patrons, there weren’t as many as there ought to have been for a crossroad’s town like Harroway. Taking a seat with his men, he thanked the serving girl for the ale and sipped quietly. Amidst the scattered chattering of the manifold travelers, his ear picked up an interesting conversation behind him.

“You were in the capital?”

“Aye.”

“So, are the rumors true then? About the Bluecoats?”

“I can’t say if they’re all true, but I tells you this much: I ain’t never seen a ship as large as theirs.” There was a pause punctuated by a quick belch. “Bigger than those swan ships those Summer Islanders ‘ave.”

“Bigger?!”

“Aye, and the soldiers they brought with ‘em…” There was another brief pause. “… I tells you Norwyn, I ain’t never seen a group of fightin’ men so organized. Hells, they could put them Golden Company boys to shame.”

“Is it true they don’t wear armor?”

“Aye.”

“They don’t sound all that dangerous.”

A small laugh emanated from the other man. “Oh, just you wait, boy. Just you wait.”

Their conversation then shifted toward another topic, and Brynden stopped paying attention. His men’s hearty conversation working with his ale to drown out the sounds of the inn, he mused briefly on what he had overheard. Rumors had trickled down from the Vale and the North about these men in blue coats, but even when the stories of their appearance in King’s Landing cropped up, he never gave much credence to them. When one of his Minisa’s handmaidens had started talking about them one day during their daily rides along the Tumblestone, he had thought them to be utterly preposterous. If he were to believe the handmaiden’s words, he would think these foreigners as no less than the return of the Valyrians.

The serving girl’s return shook him out of his reverie as she smiled warmly to him. “Can I get you more ale, milord? Or something to eat?”

“Of course.” He held out his tankard. “Do you have kidney pie?”

“We do, milord.”

“That alright with you lads?” He asked his men, who all nodded in turn.

“Alright.” She nodded as she poured them more ale. “Eleven kidney pies. I’ll get those to you as soon as I can.”

He nodded his thanks to her, and continued drinking. For the rest of the night, thoughts of what would be awaiting him in the capital swirled through his head.

Rested and well supplied, with a good night’s sleep renewing his energy, he and his guards continued on the Kingsroad. Their ride was relatively uneventful, the only notable hallmarks being when he encountered travelers coming up from King’s Landing. He noted with interest how all of the stories seemed to be more and more unified, their commonality withstanding the often-inconsistent nature of gossip.

After twelve days of riding, Brynden and his retinue rode down the last stretch of the Kingsroad before the capital, he mused briefly at the charge he was given by his older brother. Representing not just House Tully, but all the Riverlands in these negotiations was a great honor, yet he couldn’t shake away the feeling that there was something off about the king’s summons. This was not the first time a foreign envoy sought to forge a connection with the Seven Kingdoms. He recalled the delegation sent from the Summer Isles to the court of Jaehaerys II on the eve of the Blackfyre Rebellion. But the whispered rumors about these black ships only added another level of confusion that was already plaguing his mind.

With the odious sea air that he recognized as the capital permeated through the summer heat, he and his retinue crested the last hill before finally seeing their destination. King’s Landing was as he remembered it: a cesspit of the foulest order. To his left, he could see the dark waters of Blackwater Bay. Floating on the wayside, away from the heavy traffic of ships sailing out of the city’s harbor, he spotted three large shadows as black as the water below them.

_These must be the… ‘Americans’._

As he trotted his horse up to the Dragon Gate, he spotted royal banners just a way’s off. A greeting party. Riding up to them, he saw the sight of Lord Owen Merryweather, who he had encountered at the Stepstones. He remembered thinking very little of the Lord of Longtable.

“In the name of King Aerys II, greetings!”

“Lord Merryweather,” He acknowledged plainly.

“My Lord of Tully.” The portly man smiled brightly. “I come on behalf of the Hand of the King, Lord Tywin Lannister to welcome you to the capital.”

“Send Lord Tywin my thanks.” Brynden answered roughly. “Now then, my lord, shall we?”

If the Reachman was offput by the less than eloquent greeting, he did not show it. “Oh, yes of course. Right this way.”

“You must be awfully curious about the foreign delegation.” Lord Owen stated, breaking the silence of the moment.

“I must admit, I am.” Brynden responded. “We’ve been hearing queer tales from travelers as we made our way down the Kingsroad. It was difficult to tell if they were nothing more than gossip.”

“Bah!” The fat lord shook his head in contempt. “I would not trust the words of the smallfolk regarding affairs as delicate as this. All will be explained once you are settled, my lord. I can promise you that.”

“Very well.” He nodded. “But perhaps you may do me a kindness and answer this question. If this isn’t the first time these… ‘Americans’ have visited the capital, why are they sending another delegation?”

“I should not think that it would be a danger to answer your question, so I will.” The Lord of Longtable smiled in that odd way all men seemed to in the capital. “The Americans’ did send a delegation last year, but before any true diplomacy could begin, a message arrived from their world. Apparently, their kingdom had descended into civil war and so their king called for the delegation’s immediate return, presumably so their ships may aid in their war effort.”

“A civil war?” His brow furrowed at the notion. “We’ve received no news of any such conflict in the Free Cities. Surely we would have heard news of such an event.”

“My dear Ser Brynden, you’ll find that events surrounding the Americans are a lot more complicated than you’ll ever expect.” He laughed heartily, leaving Brynden to dwell in his confusion as the party approached the Dragon Gate.

With a nod to one of the Goldcloaks, the gates were opened.

Ser Brynden steeled himself, keeping his family’s words to heart as he readied himself for whatever may come.

_Family, Duty, Honor._

* * *

_“That on the first day of January in the year of our Lord, one thousand eight hundred and sixty-three, all persons held as slaves within any State, or designated part of a State, the people whereof shall then be in rebellion against the United States shall be then, thenceforward, and forever free; and the executive government of the United States, including the military and naval authority thereof, will recognize and maintain the freedom of such persons, and will do no act or acts to repress such persons, or any of them, in any efforts they may make for their actual freedom.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't planning on including Ser Brynden Tully's POV in this story at all, but with the way this chapter was flowing, it felt natural to end the Tully's perspective with the Blackfish.
> 
> Next up, the Stormlands...


	7. THE STAG

**The Stormlands – 268 A.C. / 1863 A.D.**

* * *

A heavy storm pelted Lord Steffon Baratheon and his party with hard-hitting rainfall, as they rode through the Kingswood.

“Doesn’t seem like it’ll let up any time soon, my lord.” Donovar, his captain of the guards, commented off-handedly, as he looked up at the darkened clouds.

“It matters little.” He responded firmly, gesturing the group to continue forward. “We press on. This storm may slow us, but it won’t stop us.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Is there a problem, Lord Baratheon?” A voice appeared from behind him. Wrapped in an azure cloak, with only a leather-brim cap to protect his head, Captain Stanley Erinmore rode up next to him.

“Not at all, Captain.” He answered. “Just assuring the spirit of the men.”

“A challenge at the best of times.” The captain gave him a crooked smile. “You seem to be pretty good with them.”

“And how have you come to this conclusion?”

“They speak very fondly of you.”

He had to bite back a scoff, as he returned the American’s wry grin. “Most of these men are veterans of the Stepstones war. They’re some of the bravest I’ve ever known.”

“You fought in the war then?” Captain Erinmore inquired. Turning to the captain, he noticed a hint of something tired and weary behind his eyes.

He knew that the Americans were in the midst of dealing with a civil war, which was their explanation why they had left so suddenly two years ago and why they’ve had almost no contact with the Seven Kingdoms since. It wouldn’t have surprised Steffon if this American captain had seen battle. After he returned from the Stepstones, the aged spectre that returned his gaze in the mirror looked eerily similar to the American’s haunted countenance.

“I did.” He admitted. “With my father.” _Until he died in my arms._

The captain seemed to sense the unspoken confirmation and merely gave a single nod. “Was he brave as well?”

“Too brave.”

Patters of rainfall and squelching mud filled the pause between the two before Steffon summoned up enough courage to ask, “What about you?”

At the American captain’s confused expression, he clarified, “Where you brave as well?”

The Captain delayed in giving an answer, and almost convinced Steffon that he had prodded a sensitive subject, until the long stretch of silence was disturbed by seven words.

“No, but I wish I had been.”

Steffon dropped the matter, hesitant to uncover the horrors that the Americans’ war could’ve unleashed upon their world. With soaking banners and drenched cloaks, the retinue continued onward, their horses’ kicking up mud and wet dirt as they trudged along the Kingsroad.

The journey from the capital to Storm’s End was a relatively short distance, but the rainstorms that fell during this time of year could hamper a sojourn by up to a fortnight. The mud that would accumulate would leave the horses stuck and cause them to descend to panic in the hands of less-than seasoned rider. Lord Steffon was far beyond a novice in the saddle, but as he looked up at the darkened skies and the occasional flashes of lightning that would streak across, he knew that there would be some delay.

In the past, his return journeys from the capital would not be filled with such haste. But ever since the birth of his two sons, he had found himself increasingly longing for their presence, as well as his wife’s. He amused himself when he came to that realization earlier that morning. Despite all his youthful claims otherwise, he had become a family man.

_It looks like mother was right after all._

Thankfully, with his business in the capital concluded, he was free to return home. It had been nearly a year since his old friend Aerys II decreed the strangest summons in all the realm’s history. That year, men from all four corners of the Seven Kingdoms descended onto King’s Landing, all of them intrigued by the news that they were to represent their lieges to these so-called ‘Americans’.

Initially, he was concerned by the message from his cousin. He had heard the rumors about the black ships and the foreigners that had come on behalf of a strange, far-off kingdom up the Narrow Sea, and had feared that Aerys was either being coerced or tempted by the hands of these foreigners. So instead of sending some bannerman to represent the Stormlands, he had decided to go himself.

He trusted his own eyes and ears, more than he did any other lord.

To his surprise, he had found himself not to be the only one of the great lords with that thought in mind. He remembered watching the gray and white banners of House Stark flying proudly on the mast of a Manderly carrack as it sailed into the Blackwater. _“It looks as if winter has come”_ , he recalled some member his retinue snickering as they rode into King’s Landing.

He didn’t laugh. He knew the prowess that Lord Rickard Stark held. The unassuming Lord of Winterfell had distinguished himself in the War in the Stepstones as a formidable man whether he was under a banner of peace or a banner of war.

Upon entering the Red Keep, he was shocked by the conglomeration of nobility that had arrived to greet the Americans. Not since the Great Council of 233 had there been such a gathering of men from across the realm. From the black bear of Mormont to the falling star of Dayne, and even a banner or two from the Iron Islands, it felt as if all of Westeros had descended to see just what the king had found so special in these foreigners.

_We certainly weren’t disappointed._

He was amazed by the array of weapons they had displayed, all caused by an explosive substance that they called ‘gun powder’. The memory of seeing the noblemen of the Seven Kingdoms quake in terror at the demonstration of their ‘revolvers’, ‘muskets’, and ‘cannons’ would have made him chortle had he not seen the result those weapons had wrought upon their mock targets. He recalled walking through the city in the aftermath of their display, hearing murmurs from the lower citizens down near Fleabottom. Rumors were abound of how the Aerys had summoned sorcerers from Asshai, that the foreigners were using their dark arts to usurp the Iron Throne, that the explosions were signs that Aerys was attempting to rebirth dragons.

All nonsense, clearly, as the American officer that had organized the display had explained to the council of representatives that the powder was drawn and composed from elements within the earth. But that did little to quell the rumors. Especially when the Americans had invited the council members onto their infamous Black Ships.

As a son of Storm’s End, Steffon had some experience of sailing. If he hadn’t been the noble son and heir of Lord Ormond Baratheon, he could have easily envisioned himself as a sailor or merchant. He knew ships in the same way a Dornishman knows wine.

Yet, when he saw the Americans’ floating behemoths lumbering into harbor _bare of_ _sails_ , he knew immediately that these people were from another world. And he shouldn’t have been so surprised when during their welcome feast, Aerys admitted as such.

Now, he knew his cousin ever since they had served as pages together when they were boys. If these Bluecoats truly were a ruse from Aerys and proof of his rumored growing madness, then he had to commend him for the thoroughness put in place for this jest.

When he was shown the monstrous metal hearth that was supposed to have powered the ships, he found himself dumbstruck at the relative simplicity of the principles behind it. Even the crusty fool Pycelle marveled at the fact that one of his predecessors at the Citadel had discovered the principle behind the Americans’ ‘steam engine’ _before_ Aegon’s Conquest and had even commissioned a machine that demonstrated it.

Ultimately, though, what had convinced Steffon about the verity of these Americans was not some grand flaunting of their ships or weapons, but a small conversation about spring.

_“We were quite surprised, Lord Baratheon,” Captain Erinmore began as they walked through the halls of Maegor’s Holdfast, “that the climate of your world manages to be so warm even this late into winter.”_

_“Winter?” Steffon asked, confused at the statement. “You’re mistaken, Lord Captain. We’re in the middle of spring.”_

_“Spring?” Erinmore’s confusion was now clearly eminent. “How odd…”_

_“Perhaps it’s a quirk of this… gateway, as you call it.”_

_“Perhaps. I shall have to mention it my report.” They turned a corner in the hall, as they approached the Red Keep’s training yard where he spotted Stormlander knights exchanging conversation with American bluecoats._

_“So, you’re in the midst of winter in your world?” He asked the Captain._

_“More toward the end, more like.” He nodded with his hands clasped behind him. “In about a month or so, it’ll be spring.”_

_“Oh?” Steffon remarked in surprise. “Have your world’s learned men managed to deduce how long the seasons can last?”_

_“Not exactly.” He seemed intrigued at the question. “I mean, it’s only a few months difference after all.”_

_“A few months?”_

_They had both stopped at the courtyard. A few of the blue coat officers were testing the weight of a great sword while an Estermont knight was being taught how to load one of their ‘rifles’._

_“How long does a season last in your world?”_

_“Three, four months.”_

_Steffon looked fervently into the captain’s eyes as he searched for any ill-intent, any falsehoods that said otherwise._

_“How long does a season last here?”_

_“Years.”_

A thunderclap seemed to shake the whole forest, scaring the horses. Steadying his mount, he turned to the travel-weary party.

“Not long now, men.” He announced over the roar of rainfall. “We’ll make camp once we cross Wendwater Bridge.”

The rest of the day’s riding continued without much issue. He had been concerned that the storm might have caused the Wendwater to increase in depth and potentially submerge the Wendwater Bridge. Thankfully by the time he sent scouts ahead to check on the state of the bridge, the heavy tempest had given way to a light fall of rain. When the scouts returned, they reported the bridge to be undamaged. And so, the party crossed the bridge with lighter spirits.

Making camp for the night, the rains continued to ease but not end. As he and his men managed to find a dry enough spot in the forest, they were all thankfully spared of having to sleep in the mud.

As he lay sleeping on his cot, the sounds of thunder echoed across the sky.

He thought of Robert’s boisterous yells, of his wife’s thunderous spirit, of the roar of battle as he held his father in his arms.

That night, his dreams were plagued by memories...

_Across an open beachhead on the island of Bloodstone, chaos erupted._

_The bows of dozens of galleys had already dug into the sand as hundreds of men in arms climbed off the ships only to be cut down by horsemen of the Golden Company. Small boats that had begun to ferry provisions from the supply carracks, were now being swamped by fleeing men as the boats began to capsize by the routing soldiers. Those who brave men who had decided to stand and fight soon found themselves amidst a swarm of sellsword infantry._

_He was just a squire then, watching with awe as his father, the Hand of the King, Lord Ormund Baratheon, spotted the rout that had threaten to spread to the rest of the landing party._

_His father had been the bravest man he had ever known._

_He watched him turn to the archers and ordered them to loose their arrows toward the rear of their lines._

_He watched as he ordered the signal flags to be raised to alert the other galleys to begin firing their catapults onto the enemy horsemen._

_He watched as he drew his sword before turning to him and shouting, “Now, Steffon! Now’s your time!”_

_It was a memory, a dream, but it all felt so real. The smoothness of the cold leather on his palm as he drew his blade. It was a gift from his father._

_He promised that at the end of the campaign, he would knight him in front of all of the other Stormlords. “Ser Steffon Baratheon,” Father laughed heartily. “That has a nice ring to it, eh?”_

_With blade in hand, he looked at his father, unbidden as the weight of his plate and brigandine suddenly felt heavier than all the world. He followed his father as he jumped off the galley onto the soft sand. Three score men followed them from the ship that day as they cut a swath into the line of spearmen surrounding a group of Stormlander swordsmen._

_It was glorious._

_Horsemen carrying golden banners rode through their lines trying to ward off the meager force of Baratheon guardsmen . They had underestimated their bravery._

_Ten men had withstood the charge slicing, hacking, and stabbing at the enemy mounts. Down they fell, with fear on their faces as steel penetrated through soft flesh._

_His men had cut through the enemy and to the wavering banners. Men and knights rallied to a field of purple with a white cotise._

_“Up lad! Up!” Father hauled one of the men up to him. “What’s your name lad?”_

_“Ser Bonifer, my lord.” The shaken knight proclaimed over the noise of battle. “Of House Hasty.”_

_“Hasty, eh?” Father’s grin was almost manic. “Well, live up to your name boy! Rally your men with Lord Swann’s and flank right! We’ll drive those bastards back in the woods!”_

_“What about you, my lord?” The knight asked._

_“My son and I will take the rest of our men and drive and left.” He shook his shoulders. “Lord Estermont is on his way as we speak. He’ll lead the force that’ll pin them here.”_

_With a nod, the knight, Ser Bonifer, turned and grabbed the reins of a nearby riderless horse. In one swift movement, he saddled the horse and drew his sword._

_“You men,” He shouted. “Rally to me! We go to Lord Swann!”_

_About a hundred voices shouted out a bellowing war cry and followed the knight to aid the Lord of Stonehelm’s forces._

_“Brave man.” Steffon had said aloud._

_Father turned and laughed before grabbing the reins of a lone mount and saddling it himself. “We can’t let him have all the fun, eh?”_

_Steffon followed his father’s example and found a riderless horse. Its brown coat glistened under the noonday sun as he saddled the creature._

_In that moment, he felt immortal._

_More ships were beginning to land as spearmen and knights began to disembark and join the fray. The three-score host had now tripled in size as they continued down toward the rocky outcrop signaling the furthest extent of the left flank._

_“Men of Storm’s End!” Father called out to his knights. “Forward! To glory!”_

_Some two hundred men must have followed father and I into the enemy lines. The low quality sellswords that had charged us initially soon gave way to the disciplined ranks of the Golden Company’s top spearmen._

_Blood stained onto gold as our band of men penetrated through their lines. But then the seven horns sounded._

_From a clearing in the forest, armored lancers carrying red banners charged into our force. I watched helpless as fifteen men were killed in just the first charge. And that was when I saw the Pretender._

_“BLACKFYRE!” Father bellowed at the lead rider, who only stared in return before he led the rest of his lancers into a charge._

_Grabbing a discarded spear, he watched his father charge alone into the approaching enemy._

_Like a scene from the Age of Heroes, he watched his father weave and maneuver through the oncoming flurry of the Blackfyre’s riders until he was confronted with the usurper himself. He watched as the two squared each other for a brief moment, the cacophony of battle echoing behind them. And with a furious roar, his father charged toward Maelys Blackfyre._

_It was over in a moment. A brief collision of steel, and a falling body served to end the quick duel._

_His father fell onto the dirt with half a lance jutting out of his torso._

_“Father!”_

_Everything else seemed to melt away as he cut through the enemy ranks to where his father had fallen. A horn’s blast from the east heralded the arrival of Lord Buckler’s men. The combined assault pushed the Golden Company’s lancers back into the woods._

_Leaping off his horse, he ran to his father. His eyes were still open, but his breathing was labored, and blood was starting to flow heavily from the wound. He tried to whisper something to Steffon, but he struggled to hear over the sound of men and clashing steel._

_Whatever his father had wanted to tell him had been lost._

_“My lord!”_

_His eyes wandered the battlefield as he searched for whoever was calling out to him._

_“My lord!”_

_Men were being pierced with steel blades, the ends of spears. Some of his men were being trampled by enemy riders, some of the enemy riders were being shot out of their saddles by his men._

_“My lord!”_

_Steffon could not see where the voice was coming from. To his right? No, there lay the enemy host. To his left? No, there were only enemy riders._

_Where? Which way should he go?_

_Who? Who was calling to him?_

“My lord!”

He awoke to the soft pitter-patter of rain and the grim, long face of one of his guards.

“Apologies, my lord, but Captain Donovar asked for you.”

“What is it?” Steffon asked as he ran his hands over his face, still haunted by the dream.

“He says that he can hear riders coming from the south.”

Those words were enough to alert Steffon. Nodding absently, he tied on his belt and scabbard, his sword swinging in its hilt, and wrapped himself up in his cloak before stepping outside.

The light rainfall had by now given way to a soft drizzle. He figured it must be nearing sunrise, not that such a fact mattered with the darkened storm clouds hovering overhead allowing little sunlight to seep through. Having been born and raised in these lands, he knew that the scattered drizzles could easily give way to another heavy rainfall, and with the news of approaching riders, the chaos that could ensue was the last thing he needed.

Approaching the edge of the camp, he found more guards there than he had previously sanctioned. No doubt, reinforcements sent from the captain. Walking over to him, he could see movement from a clearing in the woods. A brief glimpse of a passing shadow alerted him to the location of the approaching riders.

“My lord,” Donovar greeted. “A sentry spotted them approaching. He made out twenty riders.”

“Do they ride under banners?” He asked the captain.

“They do, but they’re too far to make out.”

Steffon looked around at the dimmed hue of the grey morning sky. He could barely see a few paces beyond the clearing, but he could just about see the darkened silhouette of a banner leading the group of shadows.

“Bring me that lantern.”

A sentry handed the light to him and after the riders had gotten close enough, he lifted it up. The illumination revealed a purple banner with a white cotise. _House Hasty?_

“My lord?” The lead rider called out from the clearing. His face scarcely lighted by the lantern, Steffon recalled the young knight back in the first day of the war.

“Ser… Bonifer, was it not?”

“It is, my lord.” His face was still young, but he could tell by the look in the knight’s eyes that he wasn’t as easily frightened as he was back on Bloodstone. “I’m surprised you remember.”

“Hard to forget, ser. You broke the right flank just in time to let Lord Swann come to my men’s aid.” The dream was still fresh in his mind. “I suppose I owe you my life.”

“Only doing my duty, my lord. To you and to the Warrior.”

Steffon didn’t quite know what to make of that. He couldn’t even recall the last time he had spoken, let alone given thought to, the gods.

“And are you here to do your duty, as well?”

“Of course, my lord.” He dismounted and handed Steffon a message bearing the Baratheon seal.

“I received this letter from your wife, Lady Cassana. She requests that my mend provide escort for your guards.”

 _I didn’t expect this._ His wife was a strong-willed woman and more often than not got her way. It was her keen mind on matters of polity and history that made prevented many a disaster from befalling their family. In truth, he suspected that should he ever die before his time, Cassana would have no problems running Storm’s End in his absence. He couldn’t rightly say the same if it were the other way around.

“If she deems as such, she’s probably right.” He muttered absently as he read through her letter confirming the knight’s orders. “Although, she hasn’t explained as to why I would need an extra twenty knights for escort.”

He turned back to see the deep gray sky slowly beginning to lighten its hue before, staring back at the young knight. “Perhaps you can enlighten me, Ser Bonifer, over breakfast?”

“Thank you, my lord.”

Steffon snapped an order to his captain of the guards to let the men enter, before inviting the Hasty knight into his tent.

“So,” Steffon splashed his face with warm water, before drying himself clean, “Is there a valid reason for your arrival, or has my wife succumbed to a new state of paranoia?”

“My lord, while I was ordered to escort you under Lady Cassana’s orders, it was not her who desired as such.”

“Then who, ser?”

“Well, my lord… your mother. Lady Rhaelle.”

To say Steffon was unsurprised was nothing short of an understatement. Ever since father’s death, she had fretted over his safety in ways only a loving mother can. But he had departed for the capital with half of Storm’s End’s men of arms, by her suggestion. _What use would another twenty men provide?_

“Mother sent you to me?” He asked curious with. “Why?”

“There are whispers of a new band of outlaws roaming the kingswood.” Ser Bonifer answered before leaning over. “They say that they may be targeting you for ransom.”

He now understood his mother’s concern and yet, such a plot against him made very little sense. After all, those numbered few with whom he had held feuds within the past have all met with the Stranger. So, who would be left to target him?

_If there was such a plot against me, why wait until now? I’ve ridden through the kingswood many a time in the past few months, both on my way and during my stay in King’s Landing. Surely those would have been the best times to attempt a kidnapping._

_Is it even me that they’re after? Who even else in this party would be worth…_

_Of course._

“My lord?” Ser Bonifer asked. He remained where he stood at the opening of his tent, his faced marred with concern.

“Captain Donovar!” His captain of the guards entered with his hand on his sword’s pommel. “Find Captain Erinmore, tell him to come to my tent. And give orders to strike camp, we’re leaving now.”

“My lord.” He gave a quick bow, before he left to carry out the orders.

Steffon immediately began dressing himself and putting on his armor, as his servants arrived and began to speedily pack up his belongings. From outside, the clamor of his retinue striking camp did as much to help wake him up as the knights’ arrival.

“My lord, I do not understa- ”

“Lord Stefffon?” The voice of the American captain interrupted as he appeared behind Ser Bonifer in a blue doublet and bleary eyes.

“Captain Erinmore. I apologize for the rude awakening, but we must strike camp.”

“What? Why?”

He sighed before turning to Ser Bonifer. “One of my knights has been made aware of a conspiracy to kidnap you.”

“Kidnap? What… do they mean to hold me for ransom?”

“That’s exactly what they want, my lord.” Ser Bonifer confirmed.

“N-no, I’m not a – ”

“Apologies, Captain, but we mustn’t waste time.” He interrupted the two men. “The sooner we reach Bronzegate, the less we have to concern ourselves with such plots.”

“Lord Steffon is right.” Ser Bonifer agreed. “If you are who the Brotherhood is after, than we need to distance ourselves from the kingswood as quickly as possible.”

Erinmore looked between the two and nodded wordlessly, deferring to their better judgment, before stepping out of the tent.

Before Steffon could say anything else, a rumbling sound that grew with each second seemed to swarm the campgrounds, immediately followed by the sound of men and horses and steel. A quick glance at Ser Bonifer’s expression made clear that they had come to the same conclusion. Grabbing his sword, the Stormlanders rushed out of the tent into a scene of chaos. His household guards were shielding themselves from the onslaught of arrows and bolts firing at them from the woods as riders swarmed the camp on both sides. All around them, the light but constant rain fall had caused the spilled blood to mix with the wet dirt.

“Ser Bonfier, to me!” He drew his sword with a swift draw. “We must get to Erinmore before these brigands capture him!”

With a piercing cry he ran into the melee and together they had hacked and stabbed and cut their way through the throng of thieves and brigands. For a brief second, he felt like a youth again watching his father die on the beaches of Bloodstone Isle.

Their rapid cut through the sea of violence managed to give his household guards time to regroup and rush once more into the fray. By now, the landed knights who had accompanied him had emerged, some bearing full armor, others in just their gambesons, and began to cut away at the lines of approaching brigands with deadly expertise.

As they neared the American captain’s tent, he was surprised to find the ship’s captain fending off three brigands who had surrounded him. He wielded his short blade with brutal aggression as he sliced and hacked at anyone who tried to get near.

_If these brigands had expected an easy time, they’re sorely mistaken._

Without another thought, Steffon hurled himself onto the closest man surrounding the American. Once the brigand had been knocked down, he plunged his blade into the thief’s chest. The other two, spotting their comrade’s demise had maneuvered to surround him as Ser Bonifer joined the confrontation. They were now evenly matched.

The moment was tense, as all four men gathered their breath and waited for the other to make their move.

One of the bandits rushed forward toward Steffon with his sword raised. It never hit him.

**_*BANG*_ **

A piercing crack echoed through the camp as the bandit fell to the mud, a large bloody hole gaping outward on the back of his head.

All three men turned to the source of the sound as they found Captain Erinmore emerging from his tent, clad in his azure coat with one of his ‘firearms’ in his hand. Pulling the lever attached to its rear, he then aimed the weapon at the other brigand and fired.

**_*BANG*_ **

Another piercing crack ran out with the shot, followed by a wisp of smoke as the would-be kidnapper fell to the mud, with a small hole in his throat.

The sounds of men and horses colliding announced the presence of the rest of Ser Bonifer’s men. They charged at the enemy riders, knocking the lightly armored brigands off their horses to be trampled by the rest of Bonifer’s knights. The muddy ground did little to hamper them as they began to swarm into the woods to drive the archers away from the camp. On the other side of the camp, Donovar had rallied his guards and ordered them forward, pushing the last of the brigands to retreat across the Wendwater Bridge.

Once the last sounds of combat had vanished, his men gave out a well-earned cheer.

Looking back toward Erinmore, he noted the emptiness of the American’s face. He was silently watching the brigand he had shot in the throat slowly bleed out. There were no cries of anguish, for they had gotten lost in choking gasps of crimson blood.

Steffon didn’t see the brigand die. His guards carried the dying man away as they returned to the business of striking camp.

As the party continued on their journey through the Kingswood, he had received the final reports of casualties from Donovar.

“Five dead, thirteen wounded but none too seriously.” The guard captain reported. “It could have been worst had it not been for the Hasty knight and his men.”

And Steffon had to admit, given how unprepared they were for such an ambush, it could have been far worst. But he knew why it wasn’t.

_Simply attacking us was never their goal._

* * *

The stormy clouds and heavy rain of the past week had given way to a light overcast, with some hints of sunlight managing to shine through the grey clouds. Cassana Baratheon, formerly of House Estermont, pondered and prayed that her husband might return home safe.

When she had received a raven from Bronzegate in her husband’s handwriting, she was nothing short of relieved. Not only had he met the extra knights she had sent to join his escort, but they had also managed to arrive in time to prevent the plot to kidnap him from unfolding.

_Praise be to the Maiden for hearing my words. Praise unto the Warrior for guiding my husband’s sword._

She knew that he would be arriving home safe, and for that she was grateful. Admittingly, a part of her was also intrigued with the guest that he would be bringing with them. A delegation from the mysterious Americans who had supposedly anchored themselves in Blackwater Bay and were now courting the favor the royal family.

_And now they seek to forge connections with the Stormlands?_

Putting on her best dress, as she expected Steffon to arrive before sundown, she went about her daily routine for the last time before her husband’s return. Her mother and father had taught her the duties of running a house back at Greenstone before she wed, but her husband’s voyage to the capital was the first time she had applied her lessons by herself. While skeptical that she could do her duties as Lady of Storm’s End without issue, she found herself running the ancient castle with much efficiency.

As she walked down the halls, after a meeting with the maester and the seneschal, she heard a familiar clamor of stomping feet thunderously approach her.

“Mother!” A voice echoed through the halls, followed by a commotion as her son Robert stormed his way to her.

At the age of six, he was already shaping up to be a fine young boy, if not a little thunderous. In appearance, Robert reminded her of her husband with their dark black hair and deep blue eyes. In personality, however, it was appearing more and more that Robert took after her.

“Robert!” She scolded. “Now what did I tell you about running in the halls?”

“Not to do it.” He answered looking no less chastised. “But me and Stanny were playing stags and wolves with Nana, and he wanted to be the wolf this time!”

“Robert!” A voice rang out from the end of the hall. Her other son, Stannis, ran up to them, huffing and puffing from the exertions of playtime. He stopped behind his brother and smiled. “Mammy!”

“Stannis.” She smiled at her youngest son, before hearing another pair of footsteps stalking down the hall toward them.

“Oh, thank the Maiden” Her goodmother echoed as she appeared around the corner of the hall. “I fear that my age is beginning to catch up with me.”

Lady Rhaelle Baratheon was the Lady of Storm’s End before Cassana had married Steffon. She represented the best traits of Baratheon women, despite her origins as the daughter of Aegon V of House Targaryen. Strong willed and defiant in the face of unyielding odds, yet also regal and composed without so much as a trace of pomposity. A true lady of the Stormlands.

Cassana found her goodmother’s help to be nothing short of invaluable. She knew that Rhaelle understood her struggles, both being wed into the Baratheon family and all the history that the name carried. When Steffon had left for the capital to represent the Stormlands, it was Lady Rhaelle who helped Cassana in running Storm’s End. And most importantly watching over her children.

“It’s alright, Lady Baratheon.” She assured her goodmother. “I’m sure next time Robert and Stannis will be sure to refrain from causing more stress to their grandmother, won’t you boys?”

To their credit, the two brothers sheepishly nodded.

“Oh, come now Cassana. It’s been seven years, and you still insist on calling me ‘Lady Baratheon’?” The former princess shook her head. “And I appreciate the concern, but I’m not that old yet.”

Cassana smiled before kneeling down to her two boys. “Now, then. Do you remember what I have told you about playtime?”

“To be careful.” Robert said.

“And to not play in the hallways.” Stannis added. “Only out in the courtyard, and never outside the castle without your permission.”

“Very good Stannis.” She smiled. “Now, if you go and play in the courtyard, can you promise that there won’t be any roughhousing like last time?”

The two boys nodded, Stannis noticeably more serious than his brother.

“Alright, go on then. I need to talk to Nana Rhae alone, alright?”

Without another word, they spirited off to the courtyard. She smiled at her two boys. Willful and stubborn, each in their own way. She wondered if that was an inherent trait in all trueborn Baratheons. _It’s certainly a trait that is needed in all Baratheons, trueborn or otherwise._

Rhaelle, having caught her breath, gave a fond smile as Robert and Stannis left. “They grow bigger and bigger by the day.”

“I know.” Cassana nodded as he fell in step with her goodmother. “I can’t believe that there was a time where I once held them in my arms.”

Fond memories of her and Rhaelle teaching baby Robert to walk briefly flashed in her mind.

“There was once a time when I held Steffon in my arms.” Rhaelle said. “Now he’s a man grown and wed, and there are moments when I still can’t fathom it.”

“Speaking of my lord husband,” She began. “He should be returning to Storm’s End today.”

“Thank the gods he’s returned unharmed.”

“I should be thanking you. Had I not heeded your warnings, my husband may have very well ended up in the hands of those brigands.”

“Yes, the Brotherhood.” Rhaelle mused. “My sources tell me that they’re swiftly becoming a growing issue in the kingswood.”

“Brutes of those kind have only one end and that is the chopping block.”

“Such firm words. You’ve become more of a Baratheon than I had expected.” Rhaelle teased.

“Well, ours is the fury, after all.” Cassana nodded firmly. “And I have little sympathy for those who would seek to harm my family.”

“Spoken like a true lady of Storm’s End.” She smiled. They turned a corridor that lead to an open hall that overlooked the training yard. Down below, she could see Robert and Stannis engaged in a mock sword fight with sticks that she suspected the Master-at-Arms to have been responsible for.

“Has Steffon mentioned anything else in his last correspondence?” Rhaelle asked.

“Nothing else. Were you expecting more?” She asked.

“Only about the guest we are meant to be hosting.” Rhaelle answered. “To be frank, I’m not sure what my nephew seeks to achieve by inviting one of these Americans to our castle.”

“The tales about their weapons seem to be well founded, and many have witnessed their black ships sailing without wind.” She considered. “Perhaps the king desires to purchase their weapons for his arsenal.”

“By the gods. The thought of that kind of power behind Aerys… ” Her goodmother sighed. “I do love my nephew, but he does worry me.”

Cassana was not sure what to make of her goodmother’s words. She had only ever met her goodcousin, the king, once when he was still a prince and was invited to her and Steffon’s wedding. He seemed cordial enough, granted with a touch of arrogance, and quite an eclectic personality. Steffon had said that he brought life to the monotony of court, having thoughts and opinions on a multitude of differing matters.

 _“My cousin,”_ Steffon had once said, _“only has the best intentions of Westeros at heart.”_

Her goodmother’s tone of concern toward Aerys had elicited her own worries.

“Do you think he means to use these Americans to help solidify his grasp on the throne?”

Rhaelle opened her mouth to answer, but no words confirming or denying the matter were spoken. She shook her head and paused, as if she were considering her next sentence with the utmost delicacy.

“I’m sure you know the saying about us Targaryens.” She began. “The truth is, one can never be sure what goes on in the minds of kings, let alone Targaryen kings. But one this is certain, these Americans have power. Not mummer’s tricks, but true terrifying power. And Aerys will be attracted to that. What that means for the rest of us, only the gods can know.”

Cassana dwelt on those words, still unsure of what to make of them. But she was confident of one thing: they would have to tread with caution when it came to these Americans.

The sound of a horn blowing from the watchtower alerted everyone in the castle. Cassana and Rhaelle knew what it meant.

In an instant, the whole of Storm’s End had become a panicked throng of servants, stewards, guards, and laborers all scurrying about the halls to prepare for the return of their liege lord, and the new guest.

As she entered her solar, she sat in front of her vanity, brushing her hair and smoothing out any imperfections in her dress. Once she had deemed herself presentable, she worked to quash those suppressed feelings that had plagued her since his absence.

Checking on Robert and Stannis, ensuring that they both appeared presentable for their father’s return, the entire household of Storm’s End gathered in the main courtyard. The midday sun was high, but a strong breeze had flown in from the west sending a mild chill through the halls of the castle.

The great portcullis was raised, and the twin doors were opened. With banners and flags abound, the retinue rode into the keep. The famous black stag of the Baratheons flew along with those of house Buckler, Swann, and Hasty. Nearly fifty guards had accompanied her husband to King’s Landing and upon his return, were seventy. And at the head of the vanguard was her husband.

He looked tired and pale, which drew her concern. But his eyes still held the soft appreciation that had found its way into her heart.

Dismounting his horse, he walked toward her.

“My lady.” He smiled softly.

“My lord.” She beamed. “Storm’s End is yours, once more.”

And before she could say much else, she leant up and kissed her husband. In her youth she would have been embarrassed to express such a personal form of affection. Her septa’s warnings of ‘wantonness’ and ‘humility’ had waned since she had come to love Steffon.

_There is no impropriety. We are husband and wife._

The feel of stubble against her cheeks seemed to drown out the last few months of frustrating isolation in her bed. His lips responded for a brief moment, before he seemed to recall that they were in the presence of company and broke away from her kiss. Having none of his bashfulness after so long apart, she took him in her embrace. A feeling of victory surged through her when he felt his strong arms wrap themselves around her.

“I’ve missed you so much, Steffon.” She murmured into his shoulder.

“I’ve missed you too, Cass.”

A cough from behind her, brought the reality of they were back to them. From over her shoulder, she could see Rhaelle’s pointed look toward them, as if her and Steffon were merely two youths entertaining juvenile fantasies and grand romances.

Stepping away from each other’s arms, they could note the amused look that most of the household, and especially the guards, had thrown their way. Rolling her eyes, she couldn’t help but giggle at her husband’s blushing face.

“Father!” Robert and Stannis both jumped into her husband’s arms.

With a deep laugh, he spun them around in the way they’d loved since they were mere toddlers.

“Bobby, Stanny,” He set the excited boys down. “Have you been giving your mother any trouble?”

“Nuh-uh.” They shook their head in unison.

“And Nana? You’ve been protecting her like you promised correct?”

“We saved her from pirates.” Stannis answered. His face clear

“Good lads.” He placed a hand on both of their heads, ruffling their hair, before turning to Rhaelle.

“Mother.” He nodded, his smile softening.

“My son. Come and give your mother a hug.”

As the two embraced, she could barely make out his lips moving as he whispered something briefly to Rhaelle. A brief flash of surprise, or perhaps confusion, appeared on her face. Whatever he had told her, it had managed to break the wall of carefully masked elegance that she displayed to the world.

Looking back at the rest of the newly arrived party, Cassana saw one rider cautiously dismount himself from his horse. Clad in a deep blue coat and matching cap, his overall appearance marked him as an outsider, not only to the Stormlands but perhaps all of Westeros. He had deepset brown eyes with bags underneath that gave him a tired and haggered look. His square nose immediately made her think of Greenstone’s old Master-at-Arms, a joyless wretch and veteran of the Fourth Blackfyre Rebellion. He was slightly smaller than her husband but retained a stoutness that she had seen many a time in the sailors who would dock at Greenstone’s port. _This must be the American._

“May I introduce Captain Stanley Erinmore of the warship Ogunquit. He has been chosen by his… president?” Steffon asked the American who nodded to the question. “…President Abraham Lincoln to represent his country in the burgeoning relations between our two realms.”

Steffon turned to introduce her and their family. “Captain Erinmore, this is my wife Lady Cassana, my two sons Robert and Stannis, and my mother Lady Rhaelle.”

Cassana was still unsure what to make of the American, but nevertheless smiled, and offered her hand which he proceeded to kiss in honor. “Captain, you have my hospitality.”

“My lady” He greeted. “Though I must correct you on this account: I am not a lord. I am just a captain. You have my thanks for hosting me. Your home is very beautiful.”

“Thank you, Captain Erinmore.” _He seems polite, at least._

“You two,” The captain started flashing a smile at her children, “seem like a pair of fiery spirits.”

Stannis scowled slightly, unsure what to make of the American captain’s words. Robert, outright ignored him, his exuberant personality outshining his brother. “Is it true that you your people have firespears that can shoot thunder as loud as storms?”

The captain’s brow crooked as he momentarily thought about Robert’s words before answering, “Ah, I see what you mean. We do indeed.”

“Can you show us?” Robert’s eyes pleaded with excitement, and now even Stannis had joined his brother in the plea.

She could feel her heart tighten in her chest for a moment, as a multitude of scenarios played out in her head, all ending in the possible deaths of her children at the hands of this American captain.

“Unfortunately, I’ve not brought any with me.” Cassana gave out a silent breath in relief. “But, if your father permits, I can provide a demonstration of my revolver. It’s a smaller version of our… fire _arms_.”

“Can we see it father? Please, Father, please?” Robert pleaded to him.

“Alright, we can organize something _tomorrow_.” He answered firmly. At those words, Robert and Stannis both lit up in curiosity.

Turning to the elder matriarch, the Captain bowed and pressed a kiss to her offered hand. “Lady Rhaelle. It is an honor to meet you.”

“Likewise, Captain.” Rhaelle said in her poised regal tone.

“I believe I have you to thank for my life, my lady.” The captain stated frankly. “Had it not been for your insistence, I imagine I should be in the hands of those brigands, those… Kingswood Brotherhood.”

Cassana’s brows shot upward at the admission. _Him? Was he the one targeted by the Brotherhood?_

“Your gratitude is much appreciated, Captain Erinmore.” Rhaelle answered, her expression retaining its regal nature. “As the first visitor from your realm to stay within our halls, we have planned a feast in your honor.”

“A feast? I am indeed honored, my lady. Although, I hope you don’t take offense if I ask for some time to myself to recover first.”

“Not at all, captain.” Steffon said.

After showing the captain to his rooms, the whole household began setting up for the night’s celebrations.

Being from the Stormlands, Cassana had grown up around the raucous and often chaotic celebration feasts that the Stormlords usually held. And this feast was no exception.

The returning household guards and knights, as well as those that were counted among Ser Bonifer’s party, made for a full guest hall. Ale and wine flowed liberally from pitchers into chalices then into open mouths. Roast boar was the main course of the event and was displayed with lavish garnishing that signified the kind of opulence that came with the title of Lord Paramount. Usually Cassana was against such opulent expenditures, but Rhaelle had convinced her to not be so frugal for this occasion. After all, the return of the head of House Baratheon accompanied with an esteemed guest from a faraway foreign realm, deserved no less than the best that Storm’s End could provide.

To his credit, despite his claims that he was not of noble stock, Captain Erinmore managed to hold himself with better authority and dignity than most of her husband’s bannermen. A quick turn of the room could easily confirm her assumptions.

When he arrived in the guest hall, he was wearing another version of his strange blue uniform, which seemed to be used specifically for special occasions. Two linse of polished brass buttons ran down the center of his torso, and strange yellow shoulder pieces with golden fringes turned the heads of many a guest, lady and lord. His hair was slicked and polished, giving it an odd shine and doing much to soften some of his harsher features.

He took his place in the guest of honor’s seat at the high table.

The feast was in full swing. Men and women took turns dancing in the center hall, as the pipers and lutists and fiddlers and drummers all played their harmonies that would carry on into the night. Starved of her husband’s presence, she offered her hand to him. With a loving smile, he took it and together they spun and twirled in each other’s arms. With the dances ended, they returned to the high table, where they found the Captain engaged in conversation with Lady Rhaelle.

Despite the small hints of polite conversation that he had struck up with Rhaelle, the captain had not conversed much with her or her family. He appeared to be more of a listener, she noted with interest, as he always seemed quick to answer when questioned and quick to laugh when jokes were made. But he was hesitant to provide his true thoughts on any subject, least of all his homeland.

“I do hope you are enjoying the feast, captain.” Cassana said, hoping to probe the American’s mind.

“I am, my lady.” He smiled, taking a sip of wine. “I’ve not attended many Westerosi celebrations, but you seem to know how to throw a real party.”

“There is a streak of wildness in every child born of the Stormlands. It’s in our blood, you see.”

“Oh, I see…” His eyes followed a rather exuberant guardsmen who was carrying a serving girl over his shoulders, both guffawing.

“If the festivities are not to your liking – ”

“No, my lady. It’s perfectly fine. Wonderful, in fact.” His smile didn’t quite seem to reach his eyes. “It’s just certain things are weighing on my mind, at the moment.”

 _Whatever could he mean by that?_ “My husband tells me that you plan on visiting the other kingdoms soon.”

“Yes, my lady. I’ve been charged with establishing good relations with the Lord Paramounts of the Stormlands, Dorne, and the Reach.”

“And how would you say, my dear captain,” Rhaelle intervened, “that good relations have been established between the Stormlands and America?”

“Stormland knights saved my life under the orders of the Lady Paramount of Storm’s End upon the insistence of the mother of the Lord Paramount of Storm’s End. For that, I shall put in a good word to my superiors in Washington.”

“Washington? Is that your realm’s capital?” Rhaelle asked.

“It is, my lady.”

“And are the rumors true about your civil war?”

“Unfortunately, they are. We were optimistic that we could end the rebellion by the end of that year, but we were sadly mistaken.”

“Did you fight in any great battles?” Robert asked, with a mouthful of food.

A brief look flashed across the American’s face, a look that was all too familiar to her. She had seen those very same grim features and sorrowful eyes on her husband when he had returned from the Stepstones. Looking at Steffon, he noted a slight tension in his hands as gripped his chalice.

“Robert, don’t be rude.” She scolded, hoping to defuse the situation. “Apologize to the captain.”

“It’s alright, my lady, he’s not being rude.” He assured her. “It’s just that since the war began, I’ve had little opportunity for rest until I was assigned to the diplomatic mission here.”

Turning to Robert and Stannis, he answered, “I have participated in a few battles.”

“Can you tell us?” Robert asked, before seeing the look she was giving him. “Please?”

“Of course.” He took another sip of wine before continuing. “I had the privilege to captain my ship, the Ogunquit, in the Battle of Hampton Roads. My ship was sent to engage weapon that the enemy had built.”

Robert’s excitement was palpable, but she noted Stannis’s growing interest as well.

“They called it the ‘ironclad’. It was a ship built without sails and encased entirely in metal, so our cannons could do no damage to them.”

“Did you fight the Iron Clad?” Stannis asked.

“I did.” The captain paused, taking a breath. “It was a damn good fight.”

Steffon seemed to sense the captain’s discomfort as he caught the children’s attention. “Boys, the captain doesn’t want to talk about his people’s war. He’s here to learn about the Seven Kingdoms.” He turned to the captain, “Would you care to learn about the history of House Baratheon, Captain Erinmore?”

“I would love to.” He nodded to her husband in gratitude. “Perhaps young Robert and Stannis could oblige me on that matter?”

_Oh, you’ve done it now…_

Her boys began waxing with exuberance the histories of House Baratheon, much to the captain’s entertainment. It wasn’t long before the two began to break out in argument over some such thing or other involving Orys’s involvement in the Dornish campaign.

Thankfully, the captain did not appear to be too offended by her children’s outbursts.

The feast went on without much incident. As the night went on, she noticed the captain’s reticent attitude beginning to slowly whittle away underneath the constant plying of wine, music, and conversation. He was very good at entertaining Robert and Steffon, managing to tell them about the ways of his world and how feasts and dances were held and staged. He talked about his life as a sailor, much to Stannis’s subtle delight. At her and Rhaelle’s insistence, the captain was even gracious enough to sing a few sailing shanties, as he called them, for the crowd. The musicians in the hall took the new song with noted interest and before long, the entire hall was dancing to the tune.

_To me hey rig-a-jig in a jaunting gun_

_Ho-way, ho, are you 'most done?_

_With Liza Lee all on my knee_

_Clear away the track an' let the bullgine run!_

As the feast began to end, guests beginning to return to their rooms, her and Steffon decided to return to their rooms as well. Bidding their farewells to the captain and Rhaelle, they took Robert and Stannis up to their rooms as well. Tucking them in and kissing them good night, she grabbed Steffon’s hand and quickly ran to their bedroom.

She was emboldened by the wine and starved for his touch. As he closed the door, her lips were immediately set upon his. Hands roamed and drifted across each other’s bodies, his ending up entwined in her hair. Soon, articles of clothing began to fall off, as they greedily stripped each other bare and fell onto the bed.

Cassana missed this. The feel of his calloused fingers on her skin, his chapped lips grazing hers, as she softened under him. They each left a trail of kisses on the other, her heart fluttering as she reached her peak.

Pushing him onto his back, she straddled his hips and for the first time in almost a year, they were one flesh, one heart, and one soul.

As she nuzzled into Steffon’s shoulder after all of their energy had been exerted, she could feel Steffon’s fingers absently stroking her arm, her shoulder, her elbow. Looking up at him, he still held that pensive gleam in his eyes that had not left him since he had returned. Something was on his mind.

“What’s wrong, my love?”

Startled by her question, he returned his composure and said, “Just worried about the captain.”

“Oh? Should I be concerned that my husband is kept awake in his marriage bed by thoughts of another man?” She teased.

Her words raised a light chuckle out of him, as he brought his body closer to hers. “Is that why you’re still awake? You fear that my time in the capital has turned me into a pillow-biter?”

His grin turned quite mischievous before he continued in a whisper, “Or perhaps you _enjoy_ the prospect? Inviting another man in our marriage bed?”

“Steffon!” She gasped, slapping his chest as he laughed heartily.

“As handsome as the captain is, I’m afraid that the only one who has my heart is you.” He smiled kissing her forehead. “And besides, I don’t think that offering ourselves to the good captain will help much in establishing good relations with the Americans, however kind our intent would be.”

She couldn’t help but laugh at Steffon’s boldness. Her husband, usually so shy and stern, only ever shed that mask he held to the world with her. He was bawdy only with her, expressive only with her, confident only with her.

Once they managed to stop laughing, his face returned its pensive gaze as he asked, “Did mother tell you how she knows Ser Bonifer?”

“Only that they had met once during a tourney back in the capital. All she said was that she did him a favor once, and that he swore that he was indebted to her in return.”

He nodded absently, taking in the information in his half-tired state.

“Why do you ask?”

“Because mother was right about the kidnapping plot, save for who its intended target was.” He answered. “The Kingswood Brotherhood were never after me. They were after Erinmore.”

She sat up immediately at his words, surprised by the revelation. “Captain Erinmore? Why?”

“Any number of reasons.” He said. “They could’ve heard about the Americans’ arrival and hoped to ransom him back to his people. Or perhaps they meant to ransom him back to the Iron Throne, threatening war for whatever reasons they could desire. Or…”

“Or…?”

“Or perhaps the brigands were acting on behalf of another party.”

“Another party? You mean another lord?”

“Perhaps. But there’s no way to tell now.”

Cassana meditated on those words. If true, then there was someone else acting to interfere with relations between the Stormlands and these Americans. But without evidence, this conspiracy could only remain within the realm of conjecture. _Unless they still intend to kidnap the captain._

The thought had barely entered her mind when a fervent knock on the door broke interrupted their conversation. “My lord! There is an emergency!”

Her husband was quickly on his feet, wrapping himself in his robe before he answered the door. A guardsman, tired and haggard, stood on the other side.

“My lord, there’s been an attempt to kidnap the American.”

Cassana brought her hand up over her mouth in shock.

“Is he alright?”

“He is, my lord. We managed to subdue the kidnapper.”

“Take me to him.”

The guard hesitated a moment. “My lord, the kidnapper… it’s Captain Donovar.”

Despite her husband’s disapproval, she quickly wrapped a robe around herself and followed the two men. Reaching the captain’s chambers, they found a small group of their household guards standing in the outside hall. Inside the room, stood Captain Erinmore pressing a cloth to his head. A strange, foul odor could be smelled inside the room and it seemed, to her, to come from the strange metal weapon in the American’s hand. On the center floor, lay the body of Guard Captain Donovar, with knife pressed into his chest and a hole in his head.

“Are you alright Captain?” Steffon asked.

“I’m fine, thank you.” The American answered. “Just a small cut, nothing to worry about.”

“What happened?”

“I got held up from turning in my some of your guards. They overheard me talking about the bottles of bourbon that my superiors intended for me to give you as a present. They were insistent on trying my foreign booze and demanded they accompany me to try a sip.” He recounted. “When I opened the door to my room, this bastard,” He nodded to Donovar’s body, “struck me on the head. He must have expected me to return alone, because the other guards were on him, quick as can be. The tall one there pushed managed to get him with his knife, but he didn’t fall until I put a round in his head.”

Steffon nodded with grim affirmation. By now, the maester had come to attend to the captain’s wound and men were sent to move Donovar’s body away. Steffon talked to the other guardsmen and they all told the same story. The guard that had managed to stab Donovar was particularly worried, given her husband’s hard glare but he relaxed when he was told there would be no punishment for him.

After confirming the captain’s health with the maester, her husband had told her to return to bed. Cassana hoped that he would not keep for the rest of the night. Despite, her concern for Captain Erinmore’s safety, she still hoped that the first night she shared with her husband in months would end with them falling asleep in each other’s arms.

Returning to their chambers, she shrugged off her robe and crawled under the covers. In her last moments before drifting off to sleep, she noted how alone she felt in her bedchamber.

* * *

_“It was imperative to strike before we were struck by this overwhelming force in a hand-to-hand fight, which we could not probably have withstood or survived. At that crisis, I ordered the bayonet. The word was enough.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long to update. The first few versions I'd written didn't exactly pan out as I liked, so a lot of rewrites were made. Also, if Rhaelle and Bonnifer's inclusion felt incomplete, rest assured that I do have plans for them in future stories.
> 
> Next up, the Reach...


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